IMAGE  EVALUATION 
TEST  TARGET  (MT-3) 


k 


A 


{./ 


^  A 


^      ^W 


4^ 


1.0 


i  I.I 


11.25 


1    115 


£f    1^    |2.0 


V 


Hiotographic 
.Sciences 
Corporation 


4 


V 


^. 


ri>^ 


^\ 


^. 


r>3  WIST  MAIN  STRUT 

WnSTIH.N.Y.  U5I0 

(716)I79-4S03 


Vp 

^ 


^ 


%^ 


''■ 


^^I^' 


' : 


CmM/ICMH 

Microfiche 

Series. 


CIHIVI/iCMH 
Collection  de 
microfiches. 


; 


/^ 


Canadian  Institute  for  tiiatorical  IViicroraproductiont  /  Inttitut  Canadian  da  microraproductions  hiatoriques 


i  L 


Tachnical  and  Bibliographic  Notaa/Nota*  tachniquaa  at  bibiiographiquaa 


Tha  inatltuta  haa  attamptad  to  obtain  tha  baat 
original  copy  availabia  for  filming.  Faaturaa  of  thia 
copy  which  may  ba  bibiiographkally  unlqua, 
whkh  may  altar  any  of  tha  iniigaa  in  tha 
raproduetlon,  or  which  n^ay  algnlficantly  changa 
tha  uaual  mathod  of  filming,  ara  chaclcad  baiow. 


D 


D 


D 


D 


Colourad  covara/ 
Couvartura  da  coulaur 


I     I  Covara  damagad/ 


Couvartura  ondommagAa 

Covara  raatorad  and/or  laminatad/ 
Couvartura  raatauria  at/ou  paiiiculAa 


□   Covar  titia  miaaing/ 
La 


titra  da  couvartura  manqua 

lourad  mapa/ 
Cartaa  gAographiquaa  an  coulaur 


I     I   Colourad  mapa/ 


□   Colourad  ink  (i.a.  othar  titan  blua  or  black)/ 
Encra  da  coulaur  (I.a.  autra  qua  blaua  ou  noira) 

□   Colourad  plataa  and/or  illuatrationa/ 
Planchaa  at/ou  Illuatrationa  an  coulaur 

Gi    Bound  with  othar  matarial/ 
I   RalM  avac  d'autraa  documanta 


D 


Tight  binding  may  cauaa  shadowa  or  diatortion 
along  intarior  margin/ 

La  raliura  aarria  paut  cauaar  da  I'ombra  ou  da  la 
distortion  la  long  da  la  marga  intAriaura 

Blank  laavaa  addad  during  raatoration  may 
appaar  within  tha  taxt.  Whanavar  poaaibia.  thasa 
hava  baan  omittad  from  filming/ 
II  sa  paut  qua  cartalnaa  pagaa  blanches  ajoutias 
lors  d'una  raatauration  apparaiasant  dana  la  taxta, 
maia.  lorsqua  cala  Atalt  ponaibia,  caa  pagaa  n'ont 
pas  At*  f  llmAas. 

Additional  commanta:/ 
Commantairaa  suppiimantairas: 


L'inatltut  a  microfilm*  la  maillaur  axamplaira 
qu'll  lui  a  it*  poaaibia  da  aa  procurar.  Laa  d*taiia 
da  cat  axamplaira  qui  aont  paut-*tra  unlquaa  du 
point  da  vua  bibiiographlqua,  qui  pauvant  modlfiar 
una  imaga  raproduita,  ou  qui  pauvant  axigar  una 
modification  dana  la  m*thoda  normala  da  filmaga 
aont  lndiqu*a  ci-daaaoua. 


n 

D 

0 
n 

D 
D 
D 

n 


Colourad  pagaa/ 
Pagaa  da  coulaur 

Pagaa  damagad/ 
Pagaa  andommag*aa 

Pagaa  raatorad  and/or  laminatad/ 
Pagaa  raataur*aa  at/ou  palllcul*aa 

Pagas  diacolourad,  atainad  or  foxad/ 
Pagaa  d*color*as,  tachat*aa  ou  piqu*aa 

Pagas  datachad/ 
Pagaa  d*tach*aa 

Showthrough/ 
Tranaparanca 

Quality  of  print  variaa/ 
Qualit*  in*gaia  da  I'impraaaion 

includas  supplamantary  matarial/ 
Comprand  du  mat*rial  suppl*mantaira 

Only  adition  availabia/ 
Sauia  *dltion  diaponlbia 

Pagaa  wholly  or  partially  obacurad  by  arrata 
allpa,  tiasuaa.  ate,  hava  baan  rafilmad  to 
ansura  tha  bast  possibia  imaga/ 
Laa  pagaa  totalamant  ou  partiallamant 
obacurciaa  par  un  fauillat  d'arrata,  una  palura, 
ate,  ont  *t*  film*aa  *  nouvaau  da  fa9on  * 
obtanir  la  mvillaura  imaga  poaaibia. 


This  itam  is  fiimad  at  tha  raduotion  ratio  ohackad  balow/ 

Ca  dooumant  ast  film*  au  taux  da  r*duction  indiqu*  ci-dassous. 


10X 

14X 

IfX 

22X 

MX 

30X 

_£ 

l^BVtfrf 

^■■M 

□ 

12X 


1IX 


aox 


24X 


2fX 


32X 


The  copy  filmed  hero  hot  boon  roproducod  thank* 
to  the  generosity  of: 

Morisset  Library 
University  of  Ottawa 


L'exempiaire  filmA  fut  reproduit  grAce  A  la 
gtnArositt  do: 

Bibiiothdque  MorisMt 
Univarsit<  d'Ottawa 


The  images  appearing  here  are  the  best  quality 
possible  considering  the  condition  and  legibility 
of  the  original  copy  and  in  keeping  with  the 
filming  contract  specifications. 


Las  images  suivantes  ont  MA  reproduites  avec  le 
plus  grand  soin,  compte  tenu  do  la  condition  at 
da  la  nettetA  do  l'exempiaire  filmA,  at  en 
conformity  avec  les  conditions  du  contrat  de 
filmage. 


Original  copies  in  printed  paper  covers  are  filmed 
beginning  with  the  front  cover  and  ending  on 
the  last  page  with  a  printed  or  illustrated  impres- 
sion, or  the  back  cover  when  appropriate.  All 
other  original  copies  are  filmed  beginning  on  the 
first  page  with  a  printed  or  illustrated  impres- 
sion, and  ending  on  the  last  page  with  a  printed 
or  illustrated  impression. 


Les  exemplaires  originaux  dont  la  couverture  en 
papier  est  ImprimAe  sont  fiimAs  en  commen^ant 
par  le  premier  plat  at  en  terminant  soit  par  la 
dernidre  page  qui  ^omporte  une  empreinte 
d'impreciion  ou  d'iiiustration,  soit  par  le  second 
plat,  salon  lo  cas.  Tous  las  autres  exemplaires 
originaux  sont  filmAs  en  commen^ant  par  la 
premiere  page  qui  comporto  une  empreinte 
d'impression  ou  d'iiiustration  at  en  terminant  par 
la  derniAre  page  qui  comporto  une  telle 
empreinte. 


The  last  recorded  frame  on  each  microfiche 
shell  contain  the  symbol  — ^•(mean  ig  "CON- 
TINUED"), or  the  symbol  Y  (meaning  "END"), 
whichever  applies. 


Un  des  symbcios  suivants  apparattra  sur  la 
dernlAre  image  de  cheque  microfiche,  selon  le 
ces:  le  symbols  -^  signifie  "A  SUIVRE",  le 
symbols  V  signifie  "FIN". 


Meps,  plates,  charts,  etc.,  may  be  filmed  at 
different  reduction  ratios.  Those  too  large  to  be 
entirely  included  in  one  exposure  are  filmed 
beginning  in  the  upper  left  hand  corner,  left  to 
right  and  top  to  bottom,  as  many  frames  as 
required.  The  following  diegrams  illustrate  the 
method: 


Les  cartes,  planches,  tableaux,  etc.,  peuvent  Atre 
filmAs  A  des  taux  de  rAduction  diffArents. 
Lorsque  le  document  est  trop  grand  pour  Atre 
reproduit  en  un  seul  clichA,  il  est  filmA  A  partir 
de  I'engle  supArieur  gauche,  de  gauche  A  droite, 
et  de  haut  en  bas,  en  prenant  le  nombre 
d'images  nAcessaire.  Les  diegrammes  suivants 
illustrent  la  mAthode. 


1  2  3 


1 

2 

3 

4 

5 

6 

o 


^      / 

THE    M  A  R  T  I  A  NaOT  /  e  i?73 


t 


t 


a  IRovel 


nv 


(;eoi{(;i«:  du  mauiiier 

ArTHOjl    OK    "TKILIIY"    "  PETEK    iniJKTSON  " 


H777/    fLLUSritATrOXS  HV  THE  AUTHOR 


"Aprh  le  plainir  rirnf  In  i^Hne ; 
Aprea  la  pvine,  la  Dcr<M"— Anon 


/ 


S/SLIOTHeCA 


NKW    YORK    AND    LONDON 
HARPER    k    nROTIIKRS    PUBLISHERS 
TORONTO:  TIIKCOIM'.CLAUK  COMl'ANY,  LIMITED      - 

1  8  U  7 


4 


'4  5>. 
??7 


Copyright,  1890,  18'J7,  l.y  Haki-ek  &  HitoTHBRa 

All  fli/hit  rrttrvtil, 

Rntorpd  nrronlintr  to  tlio  Act  of  tli..  I'Mrliainont  of  fMnndii  in  tl-.o  vonr 

ouo  tl,ou«,ma  ..i«h(  Lumlml  ,m„I  nin.My  s-v,..,,  l,y  Haupku  .S:  Hk,;tmkrs, 

in  tho  Oillcc  of  tlio  Mini8ti-r  of  Agrlcultiins  ut  Ottawa. 


^1 


LIST    OF    ILLUSTRATIONS 


PAce 
PORTUAIT  OP  GKOltOK   DU  MAUUIEH Frondspine 

iNSTrnrioN  v.  ijuossakd 7 

THE   NKW    ItOY 11 

A   MTTI.K   I'KACK  MAKRU 17 

I.OKD    UINSWKK   AN»   ANTOFNETTE   JOSSRUN 29 

"  'tiUEI,   AMoru   D'KNFANT  !'" 33 

"amis,  I. A    MATINKK    EST    IJEM.E  "  51 

"TOO   MUCH      MONTE   CUISTO,'  I'm    AEUAID" 55 

LK   rftUK    I'OI,Yl'Hh!:ME 71 

KANKAUONNADE 79 

MEUOVEi:    lUNOS  THE    HELL.  85 

"WEEL   MAY   THE   KEEL   UOW  " 107 

A   TEHTHE-.IOUAN   TO   THE   RESCUE  ! 113 

MADEMOISEf.LE  MAKCELINE 115 

"'IF    HE  ONLY   knew!" 117 

"  'MAUHICE   AU   I'K^UET  !'" 131 

"qUAND   ON    PEIID,    PAR    TRISTE    OCCURRENCE,"   ETC.  .       .137 

THREE  LITTLE  MAIDS   FROM  SCHOOL   (1353) 139 

SOLITUDE 149 

"     PILE   OU   FACE— HEADS  OR   TAILS  ?'" 153 

"A   LITTLE    WHITE   POINT  OF    INTERROGATION" 159 

" 'nONJOUR,  MONSIEUR   IJONZIO '" 171 

"'DEMI  TASSE— YOILA,  M'sIEUR"' 179 

PKTER  THE   HERMIT   AU   PK^UET 1H7 

"THE  CARNIVAL  OF   VENICE" 197 

"'A    VOUS,    MONSIEUR   DK   LA    (iARDE  !' " 3()7 

"l   AM   A    VERY   ALTERED   PERSON!'" 313 

"THE   MOOXLUIHT   SONATA" 327 

ENTER   MR.    SCATCIIERD  237 

UARTY   (ilVES   HI.MSELF    AWAY 243 


IV 


LI. ST    OF    I  L  LIST  RATI  OX  S 


I'ACiU 

245 
251 


UK 


f*0  NEAU  AND  YET  HO   FAU 

'•'lIKhAS!  M(»N  JKUNK  AMI 

"  '  YO(j    ASK    ME   WHY   I    LOOK   SO   PALE  ?   ".  O'^l 

"YOU     DO.NT     MEAN     To    HAY    YOLUE    GOING     TO    PAINT     FOU 

i"ke:  " jjyj 

'"HE     MK.IIT      HAVE     THROWN     THE     IIANDKEKCHIKF     AS 
PLEASED ' "  

Dl{.    HASKNCLEVEU    AND   MUS.    lU.ETCHLEY 

"'MAKTIA,   I    HAVE    DONE    MV    I5EST '" yij 

AM    KHEIN.  01  r 

■  •       .  .  dl5 

DOES   SHE    A'AOir  YOU  UE   VEUY    FOND   OF    IIEK  ?'  " 
"LEAH    WAS   SUMMONED    I<KOM    IJELOW  " 
"J5ETWEEN    TWO    WEI, L  KNOWN    EAULs" 

"LE    DKKNIEK    DES    AI5EN(EKKAGE8" 
" SAUDONVX ' 

"  '  UATAPLAN.   KAT. 


287 
305 


AN 


HE 


•UESENTS    Mi:    FinST   TO   MADAME   JOSSEIJN 


I    DONT  THINK    f    KVEU   HEAIil)   HI 

I'M    A    PHILISTINE,   AND    AM   NOT    ASHAMED 

7.E    imiNCESS   VOULD   UE   SO  JAUMT 


.     .     .341 

.     .        34.-, 

.     .        355 

3.VJ 

.  387 

M  MENTION   YOUII  NAME"  401 


MAUTY 


411 
431 

453 


JU 


fK 


I'AGi; 
245 
251 
277 

281 

,  287 
305 
311 
315 
3!i» 
333 
341 
345 
355 
350 
387 
401 
411 
431 
453 


THE    MARTIAN 


'1» 


'^ 


THE    MARTIAN 


*'  BARTY   JOSSKLIX    IS    NO    MORE. 


>j 


I 
I 


Whej  so  great  a  man  dies,  it  is  generally  found  that  a 
tanded  growth  of  more  or  less  contentious  literature  has 
already  gathered  round  his  name  during  his  lifetime. 
lie  has  been  so  written  about,  so  talked  about,  so  riddled 
with  praise  or  blame,  that,  to  those  who  have  never  seen 
him  in  the  fiesh,  he  has  bee(>me  almost  a  tradition,  a 
myth  —  and  one  runs  the  risk  of  losing  all  elew  to  his 
real  persoiudity. 

Til  is  is  especially  the  case  with  the  subject  of  this  bi- 
ography— one  is  in  danger  of  forgetting  what  manner  of 
man  he  was  who  has  so  taught  and  touched  and  charmed 
and  amused  us,  ami  so  happily  changed  for  us  the  cur- 
rent of  our  lives. 

lie  has  been  idealized  as  an  angel,  a  saint,  and  a  demi- 
god ;  he  has  been  caricatured  as  a  self-indulgent  sensu- 
alist, a  vulgar  Lothario,  a  bulloon,  a  joker  of  practical 
jokes. 

He  was  in  reality  the  simplest,  the  most  affectionate, 
aiul  most  good-natured  of  men,  the  very  soul  of  honor, 
the  best  of  husbaiuls  jind  fathers  and  frieiuls,  the  most 
fascinating  companion  that  ever  lived,  and  one  who  kept 
to  the  last  the  freshness  and  joyous  spirits  of  a  school- 
boy and  the  heart  of  a  child  ;  one  who  never  said  or  did 

an   unkind  thing ;   probably  never  even   thought  one. 
I 


(Jenerous  and  open-lumded  to  a  fjiiilt,  slow  to  condemn, 
(juick  to  forgive,  und  gifted  witli  a  power  of  immediately 
inspiring  alfeetion  and  keeping  it  forever  after,  such  as  I 
have  never  known  in  any  one  else,  he  grew  to  be  (for  all 
his  (jni<'k- tempered  impulsiveness)  one  of  the  gentlest 
and  meekest  and  most  humble-minded  of  men  ! 

On  me,  a  mere  prosperous  tradesman,  and  busy  politi- 
cian and  man  of  the  world,  devolves  the  delicate  and 
responsible  task  of  being  the  first  to  write  the  life  of  the 
greatest  literary  genius  this  century  has  produced,  and 
of  reveiiUmj  the  stranye  secret  of  that  f/enins,  which  lias 
lighted  up  the  darkness  of  these  latter  times  as  with  a 
pillar  of  fire  by  night. 

This  extraordinary  secret. has  never  been  revealed  be- 
fore to  any  living  soul  but  liis  wife  and  myself.  And 
that  is  0)w  of  my  qualifications  for  this  great  labor  of 
love. 

Another  is  that  for  fifty  years  T  have  known  him  as 
never  a  man  can  quite  have  known  his  fellow-num  before 
— that  for  all  that  time  he  lias  been  more  constantly  and 
devotedly  loved  by  me  than  any  man  can  ever  quite  have 
been  loved  by  father,  son,  brother,  or  bosom  friend. 

Good  heavens  I  Barty,  man  and  boy,  IJarty's  wife, 
their  children,  their  grandchildren,  and  all  that  ever 
concerned  them  or  concerns  them  still — all  this  has  been 
the  world  to  me,  and  ever  will  be. 

lie  wished  me  to  tell  the  absolute  truth  about  him, 
Jnst  as  I  know  it ;  jind  I  look  upon  the  fulfilment  of  this 
wish  of  his  as  a  sacred  trust,  and  would  sooner  die  any 
bhameful  death  or  ))rave  any  other  dishonor  than  fail  in 
fulfilling  it  to  the  letter. 

The  responsibility  before  the  world  is  appalling ;  and 
also  the  difficulty,  to  a  man  of  such  training  as  mine.  I 
feel  already  conscious  that  I  am  trying  to  be  literary 


i 


4 


myself,  to  seek  for  turns  of  phrase  that  I  sliould  never 
have  dared  to  use  in  talkin<(  to  Baity,  or  even  in  writintj; 
to  iiini;  tliat  1  am  not  at  my  ease,  in  .short — not  ttie — but 
strainiuij  everv  nerve  to  be  on  mv  l)est  beiiavior  ;  and 
tiiat's  about  the  worst  behavior  there  is. 

Oh  I  may  some  kiiully  liglit,  born  of  a  life's  devotion 
and  the  iiap))y  memories  of  half  a  century,  lead  me  to 
luere  naturalness  and  the  use  of  simple  homely  words, 
even  my  own  native  telegraphese  I  tiuit  I  may  haply 
blunder  at  length  into  some  lit  form  of  exi)ression  which 
Barty  liimself  might  have  ai)proved. 

One  would  think  tlnit  any  sincere  person  who  has 
learnt  how  to  spell  his  own  language  should  at  least  be 
equal  to  such  a  modest  achievement  as  this;  and  yet  it 
is  one  of  the  most  ditiicult  things  in  the  worki  I 

My  life  is  so  full  Oi  Barty  Josselin  that  I  can  hardly 
be  said  to  have  ever  had  an  existence  apart  from  his  : 
and  I  can  tiiink  of  no  easier  or  better  way  to  tell  Barty's 
history  than  just  telling  my  own — from  the  days  1  llrst 
knew  iiim — and  in  my  own  way;  tiiat  is,  in  the  best  tel- 
egraphese I  can  manage  —  picking  eai'h  precious  word 
with  care,  just  as  though  1  were  going  to  cable  it,  as 
soon  as  writtei^  to  Boston  or  New  York,  where  the  love 
of  Bartv  Josselin  shines  with  even  a  brighter  and  warm- 
er  glow  than  liere,  or  even  in  France  ;  and  where  the 
hate  of  liim,  the  hideous,  odious  odium  theologicum — 
the  .sd't'u  in(Uij)U(H<)  of  the  Ciuirch — that  once  burned  at 
80  white  a  heat,  lias  burnt  itself  out  at  last,  and  is  now 
as  though  it  had  never  been,  and  never  could  be  again. 

P.  S. — (an  after-thought): 

And  here,  in  case  misfortune  should  happen  to  me 
before  this  book  comes  out  as  a  volume,  I  wisli  to  record 
my  thanks  to  my  old  friend  Mr.  du  Mauriev  for  the 
readiness  with  which  he  has  promised  to  undertake,  and 


the  conscientiousness  with  which  he  will  have  performed, 
his  share  of  the  work  us  editor  and  illustrator. 

I  also  wish  to  state  that  it  is  to  my  beloved  f^od-dai.crh. 
ter,  Koberta  Beatrix  Hay  (nee  Josselin),  that  I  dedicate 
this  attempt  at  a  biograpiiical  sketch  of  her  illi-strious 
lather. 

KOBEKT   MauKICE. 


med, 

ugh- 
icate 
I'ious 

E. 


part  fivet  ^ 

"  Dc  Piiris  a  Versailles.  Ion,  la,, 

I)e  Paris  A,  Vcrsaillos  — 
II  y  a  do  hellt's  alU'cs, 

Vive  U;  Rui  do  France  ! 
11  y  a  do  belles  allees, 

Viveiit  lea  ecoliers  !" 

One  sultry  Saturday  afternoon  in  the  summer  of  1847 
\  ant  at  niy  desk  in  the  junior  scliool-room.  or  s((l(e 
(I'etiith'H  (Irs  pclifs,  of  tiio  Institution  F.  Hrossard,  Kond- 
point  de  I'Avenue  de  St. -Cloud  ;  or,  us  it  is  called  now, 
Avenue  du  Bois  de  Boulogne — or,  as  it  was  called  during 
the  Second  Em[)ire,  Avenue  du  Prince  Imperial,  or  else 
de  I'ljuperatrice  ;  I'm  not  sure. 

There  is  not  much  stability  in  such  French  mimes,  I 
fancy;  but  their  sound  is  charming,  and  always  gives 
me  the  nostalgia  of  Paris— Hoyal  Paris,  Imperial  Paris, 
Hepublican  Paris!  .  .  .  whatever  they  may  call  it  ten  or 
twelve  years  hence.  Paris  is  always  Paris,  and  always 
will  be,  in  spite  of  the  immortal  Uaussnumn,  both  for 
those  who  love  it  and  for  those  who  vh)n't. 

All  tlu^  four  win<lows  were  open.  Two  i>f  tlicm,  freely 
and  frankly,  on  to  the  now  deserted  play-ground,  ad- 
mitting the  fragrance  of  lim(>  and  syringa  and  lilac,  and 
other  odors  of  a  mixed  quality. 

Two  other  win<luws,  derended  by  an  idaboratc  n(it- 
work  of  iron  wire  and  a  formidable  airay  <d'  spiked  iron 
rails  bi'yond.  opened  on  to  the  IJond-point,  or  meeting 
of  the  cross-roads — one  of  which  led  northeast  to  Paris 


6 


H 


tlirongh  the  Arc  de  Triomphe  ;  the  other  three  throngli 
woods  and  lields  and  country  lanes  to  sncli  quarters  of 
the  globe  as  still  remain.     The  world  is  wide. 

J'l  the  middle  of  this  open  space  a  stone  fountain  sent 
np  a  jet  of  water  three  feet  high,  which  fell  back  with  a 
feeble  sj^ash  into  the  basin  beneath.  There  was  com- 
fort in  the  sound  on  such  a  hot  day,  and  one  listened 
for  it  half  unconsciously  ;  and  tried  not  to  hear,  instead, 
Weber's  **  Invitation  a  hi  Valse,"  which  came  rij)i)ling 
in  intermittent  waves  from  the  open  window  of  the  dis- 
tant ^;r/r/o/y,  where  Chardonnet  was  practising  the  piano. 

"Tinn-tc-dum-tum-tuin  .  .  . 
Tura-te-dum-di,  didille-iddle  um  !" 

c  (hi  capo,  ag«iin  and  again.  Cliardonnet  was  no  heaven- 
born  musician. 

Monsieur  iionzig — or  "  le  Grand  Honzig,"  as  he  was 
called  behind  his  back — sat  at  his  table  on  the  estrad^^ 
correcting  the  exercises  of  the  eighth  class  (huiticme), 
which  he  coached  in  Latin  and  French.  It  was  the 
lowest  class  in  the  school;  yet  one  learnt  much  in  it  that 
was  of  consequence;  not,  indeed,  that  Balbus  built  a 
wall — as  I'm  told  we  learn  over  hcn^  (a  snudl  matter  to 
make  su(!h  a  fuss  about,  after  so  many  years) — but  that 
the  Lord  nuule  heaven  and  earth  in  six  days,  ami  rested 
on  the  seventh. 

lie  (Monsieur  IJonzig)  seemed  hot  and  weary,  as  well 
he  might,  aiul  sighed,  aiul  looked  u})  every  now  and  then 
to  mop  his  brow  and  think.  And  as  he  ga/ed  into  the 
green  and  azure  depths  beyond  the  north  window,  his 
dark  brown  eyes  ({uivered  and  vibrated  from  side  to  side 
through  his  spectacles  with  a  ((ueer  (juick  tremolo,  such 
as  I  have  never  seen  in  any  eves  l)ut  his. 

About  tive-and-twenty  boys  sat  ut  their  desks  ;  boys 


INHTITtlTION    y.    MUOHSAHI) 


8 


" 


of  all  ages  between  seven  and  fourteen — many  with 
closely  cropped  luiir,  ''a  la  nialcoiitont,"  like  nice  little 
innocent  convicts ;  and  nearly  all  in  blouses,  mostly 
blue  ;  some  with  tlieir  garments  loosely  flowing  ;  oth- 
ers confined  at  the  waist  by  a  tricolored  ceinture  de 
gymnastique,  so  deep  and  stilf  it  almost  amounted  to 
stays. 

As  for  the  boys  themselves,  some  were  energetic  and 
industrious— some  listless  and  lazy  and  lolling,  and  quite 
languid  with  the  heat — some  fidgety  and  restless,  on  the 
lookout  for  excitement  of  any  kind  :  a  cab  or  carriage 
raising  the  dust  on  its  way  to  the  Bois — a  water-cart 
laying  it  (there  were  no  hydrants  then);  a  courier  bear- 
ing royal  des})atches,  or  a  mounted  orderly  ;  the  Passy 
omnil)us,  to  or  fro  every  ten  or  twelve  minutes  ;  the 
marchand  de  coco  with  his  bell  ;  a  regiment  of  the  line 
with  its  baiul  ;  a  chorus  of  })erii)atetic  Or))heonlstes — a 
swallow,  a  butterfly,  a  hum))lebee  ;  a  far-off  l)alloon,  oh. 
joy  ! — any  sight  or  sound  to  relieve  the  tedium  of  those 
two  mortal  school-hours  that  dragged  their  weary  lengths 
from  half  past  one  till  half  past  three — every  day  but 
Sunday  and  Thursday. 

(Kven  now  1  And  the  early  afternoon  a  little  trying  to 
wear  through  without  a  nap,  say  from  two  to  four.) 

At  3.IJ0  there  would  amiQ  a  lialf-hour's  interval  of 
play,  and  then  the  class  of  French  literature  from  four 
till  dinner-time  at  six — a  class  that  was  more  tlian  en- 
durable on  account  of  the  liveliness  and  charm  of  Mon- 
sieur Durosier,  who  journeyed  all  the  way  from  the  ('ol- 
lege  de  France  every  Saturday  afternoon  in  Juno  and 
July  to  t(dl  us  boys  of  the  (puitrieme  all  about  Villon  and 
Ronsard,  and  Marot  and  Charles  d'Orlenns  {vxcrpHsexrijn- 
fwrf/*',  of  course),  and  other  i)leasant  people  who  didn't 
deal  ill  (J reek  or  Latin  or  mathennitics,  and  knew  better 


than  to  troiihlo  themselves  ovenmieh  al)out  formal  French 
grammar  and  niggling  Frenoli  prosody. 

Besides,  everything  was  pleasant  on  a  Saturday  after- 
noon on  account  of  the  nearness  of  the  day  of  days — 

"And  that's  the  day  that  comes  between 
The  Saturday  and  Monday  ".  .  .  . 

in  France. 

1   had   just  linishcd   translating    my   twenty  lines   of 

Virgil— 

"Infandum,  regina,  jubes  renovare,"  etc. 

Oh,  crimini,  hut  it  /m.s  hot  I  and  how  I  disliked  the 
pious  /Eneas  !  I  couldn't  have  hated  him  worse  if  Vd 
heen  poor  Dido's  favorite  younger  hrother  (not  mentioned 
hy  Puhlius  Vergilius  Maro,  if  I  rememher). 

Palaiseau,  who  sat  next  to  me,  had  a  cold  in  his  head, 
and  kei)t  siiifting  in  a  manner  that  got  on  my  nerves. 

"  Mouche-toi  done,  aninuil  !"  1  whispered;  "  tu  me 
degoAtes,  a  la  fin  !" 

Palaiseau  always  sniffed,  whether  lie  had  a  cold  or  not. 

"  Taisez-\ous,  Maurice — on  je  vous  donne  cent  vers  }\ 
copier!"  said  M.  Bon/ig,  and  his  eyes  quiveringly  glit- 
tered through  his  glasses  as  he  fixed  me. 

Palaiseau,  in  his  brief  triumph,  sniffed  louder. 

**  Palaiseau,"  said  Monsieur  Hoiizig,  "  si  vous  vous  ser- 
viez  do  votre  moucdioir — hein  ?  .Jo  crois  que  cela  ne 
generait  person  ne  I"  (If  you  were  to  use  your  pocket- 
handkerchief — eh  'f  I  don't  think  it  would  inconven- 
ience anybody  !) 

At  this  there  was  a  general  titter  all  round,  which  was 
immediately  suppressed,  as  in  a  court  of  law;  and  Pa- 
laiseau reluctantly  and  noisily  did  as  he  wjis  told. 

In  front  of  me  that  dishonest  little  sneak  Kapaud,  with 


!  |i 


10 


a  tall  parapet  of  books  before  him  to  serve  as  a  screen, 
one  hand  siiading  his  eyes,  and  an  inkless  pen  in  the  oth- 
er, was  scratching  his  copy-book  with  noisy  earnestness, 
as  if  time  were  too  short  for  all  he  had  to  write  about  the 
pions  /Eneas's  recitative,  while  he  surreptitiously  read  the 
Comte  de  Monte  Cristu,  which  lay  open  in  his  lap — just  at 
the  part  whore  the  l)ody,  sewn  up  in  a  sack,  was  going 
to  be  hurled  into  the  Mediterranean.  I  know  the  page 
well.     There  was  a  splash  of  rod  ink  on  it. 

It  made  my  blood  boil  witli  virtuous  indignation  to 
watch  him,  and  I  cougiied  and  hemmed  again  and  again 
to  attract  his  attention,  for  his  back  was  nearly  towards 
me.  He  heard  me  perfectly,  but  took  no  notice  what- 
ever, the  deceitful  little  beast,  lie  was  to  have  given  up 
Monte  Cristo  to  mo  at  half-past  two.,  and  bore  it  was 
twenty  minutes  to  three  !  Besides  which,  it  was  mji 
Monte  Cristo,  bougiit  with  my  own  small  savings,  and 
smuggled  into  school  by  me  at  great  risk  to  myself. 

"  Maurice  !"  said  M.  lionzig. 

*'Oui,  m'siour  !"  said  I.     I  will  translate  : 
'  Vou  shall  conjugate  and  copy  out  f(^r  me  forty  times 
the  compound  verb,  'I  cough  without  necessity  to  dis- 
tract  the  attention  of   my  comrade   Kapaud  from  his 
Latin  exercise  !"' 

*'  Moi,  m'siour  ?"  I  ask,  innocently. 

**Oui,  vous  !" 

*'  Bien,  m'siour  \" 

Just  then  there  was  a  clatter  by  the  fountain,  and  the 
shrill  snuill  pipe  of  D'Aurigny,  the  youngest  boy  in  tbe 
school,  exclaimed  : 

''  He  !  He  !     Oh  la  h\  !     Le  Roi  qui  passe  !" 

And  wo  all  jumped  up,  and  stood  on  forms,  and  craned 
our  nocks  to  see  Louis  Philippe  L  and  his  Quoon  drive 
quickly  by  in  their  big  blue  carriage  and  four,  with  their 


the 
the 


TIIK  NKW   HOY 


^4 


12 


two  bluo-and-silver  liveried  outriders  trottini^  in  front, 
on  their  wuy  from  8t.-Cloiid  to  the  Tuilerica. 

*'  Sponde  !  Sehmcy  !  fermez  les  fenetres,  ou  je  vous 
mets  tons  au  pain  sec  pour  iin  mois  !"  thundered  M.  lion- 
zig,  who  did  not  approve  of  kings  and  queens — an  appal- 
ling threat  which  appalled  nobody,  for  when  he  forgot 
to  forget  he  always  relented  ;  for  instance,  he  quite  for- 
got to  insist  on  that  formidable  compound  verb  of  mine. 

Suddenly  the  door  of  the  school -room  Hew  open,  and 
the  tall,  portly  figure  of  Monsieur  Brossard  apjieared, 
leading  by  the  wrist  a  very  fair  -  haired  boy  of  thirteen 
or  so,  dressed  in  an  Eton  jacket  and  light  blue  trousers, 
with  a  white  chimney-pot  silk  hat,  which  he  carried  in 
his  hand — an  English  boy,  evidently  ;  but  of  an  aspect  so 
singularly  agreeable  one  didn't  need  to  be  English  one's 
self  to  warm  towards  him  at  once. 

'^Monsieur  Bonzig,  and  gentlemen  !"  said  the  head  mas- 
ter (in  French,  of  course).  "Here  is  the  new  boy;  he 
calls  himself  Bartholomiou  Josselin.  lie  is  English,  but 
he  knows  French  as  well  as  you.  I  hope  you  will  find  in 
him  a  good  comrade,  honorable  and  frank  and  brave,  and 
that  he  will  find  the  same  in  you. — Maurice  !"  (that  was 
me). 

'•  Oui,  m'sieur !" 

'*  I  specially  recommend  Josselin  to  you." 

*'  Moi,  m'sieur  ?" 

"  Yes,  you  ;  he  is  of  your  age,  and  one  of  your  com])a- 
triots.     Don't  forget." 

*'  Bien,  m'sieur." 

"And  now,  Josselin,  take  that  vacant  desk,  which  will 
be  yours  henceforth.  You  will  find  the  necessary  books 
and  copy-books  inside ;  you  will  be  in  the  fifth  class,  un- 
der Monsieur  DumoUard.  You  will  occupy  yourself  with 
the  study  of  Cornelius  Nepos,  the  commentaries  of  Caesar, 


ai 


It 


and  Xenophon^s  retreat  of  the  ten  thousand.  Soyez  dili- 
gent et  attentif,  mon  ami ;  a  plus  tard  !" 

He  gave  the  boy  u  friendly  pat  on  the  cheek  and  left 
the  room. 

Josselin  walked  to  his  desk  and  sat  down,  between 
d'Adht'mar  and  Laferte,  both  of  whom  were  en  cinquieme. 
lie  pulled  a  Cgesar  out  of  his  de.sk  and  tried  to  read  it. 
He  became  an  object  of  passionate  interest  to  the  whole 
school-room,  till  M.  Bonzig  said, 

''  The  first  who  lifts  his  eyes  from  his  desk  to  stare  at 
'  le  nouvecm '  shall  be  au  piquet  for  half  an  hour !"  (To 
be  au  piquet  is  to  stand  with  your  back  to  a  tree  for  part 
of  the  following  play-time  ;  and  the  play-time  which  was 
to  follow  would  last  just  thirty  minutes.) 

Presently  I  looked  up,  in  spite  of  piquet,  and  caught 
the  new  boy's  eye,  which  was  large  and  blue  and  soft, 
and  very  sad  and  sentimental,  and  looked  as  if  he  were 
thinking  of  his  mammy,  as  I  did  constantly  of  mine  dur- 
ing my  first  week  at  Brossard's,  three  years  before. 

JSoon,  however,  that  sad  eye  slowly  winked  at  me,  with 
an  expression  so  droll  that  I  all  but  laughed  aloud. 

Tiien  its  owner  felt  in  the  inner  breast  pocket  of  his 
Eton  jacket  with  great  care,  and  delicately  drew  forth  by 
the  tail  a  very  fat  white  mouse,  that  seemed  quite  tame, 
and  ran  up  his  arm  to  his  wide  shirt  collar,  and  tried  to 
burrow  there  ;  and  the  boys  began  to  interest  themselves 
breathlessly  in  this  engaging  little  quadruped. 

M.  Bonzig  looked  up  again,  furious  ;  but  his  spectacles 
had  grown  misty  from  the  heat  and  he  couldn't  see,  and 
he  wiped  them  ;  and  Tueanwhile  the  mouse  was  quickly 
smuggled  back  to  its  former  nest. 

Josselin  drew  a  large  clean  pocket-handkerchief  from 
his  trousers  and  buried  his  head  in  his  desk,  and  there 
was  silence. 


14 


^'La!— r^,  fa!— la!-re"— 

So  strummed,  over  and  over  again,  poor  Chardonnet 
in  his  remote  parlor — he  was  getting  tired. 

I  have  heard  "L'Invitation  a  la  Valse"  many  hundreds 
of  times  since  then,  and  in  many  countries,  but  never 
that  bar  without  thinking  of  Josselin  and  his  little  white 
mouse. 

*'  Fermez  votre  pupitre,  Josselin,*'  said  M.  Bon7:ig,  af- 
ter a  few  minutes. 

Josselin  shut  his  desk  and  beamed  genially  at  the 
usher. 

"What  book  have  you  got  there,  Josselin — Caesar  or 
Cornelius  Nepos  ?" 

Josselin  held  the  book  with  its  title-page  open  for  M. 
Bonzig  to  read. 

**  Are  you  dumb,  Josselin  ?    Can't  you  speak  ?" 

Josselin  tried  to  speak,  but  uttered  no  sound. 

'^Josselin,  come  here — opposite  me." 

Josselin  came  and  stood  opposite  M.  Bonzig  and  made 
a  nice  little  bow. 

"  What  have  you  got  in  your  mouth,  Josselin — choco- 
late ? — barley-sugar  ? — caoutchouc  ? — or  an  India-rubber 
ball  ?" 

Josselin  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  looked  pensive, 
but  spoke  never  a  word. 

''Open  quick  the  mouth,  Josselin  !" 

And  Monsieur  Bonzig,  leaning  over  the  table,  deftly 
put  his  thumb  and  forefinger  between  tlie  boy's  lips,  and 
drew  forth  slowly  a  large  white  pocket-handkerchief, 
which  seemed  never  to  end,  and  threw  it  on  the  floor 
with  solemn  dignity. 

The  whole  school-room  was  convulsed  with  laughter. 

"Josselin — leave  the  room — you  will  be  severely  pun- 
ished, as  you  deserve-^ou  are  a  vulgar  buffoon — a  jo-. 


15 


crisse — a  paltoquet,  a  mountebank  !     Go,  petit  polisson 


v^ 


—go 

The  polisson  picked  up  his  pocket-handkerchief  and 
went — quite  quietly,  with  simple  manly  grace  ;  and  that's 
the  first  I  ever  saw  of  Barty  Josselin — and  it  was  some 
fifty  years  ago. 


At  3.30  the  bell  sounded  for  the  half -hour's  recrea- 
tion, and  the  boys  came  out  to  play. 

Josselin  was  sitting  alone  on  a  bench,  thoughtful, 
with  his  hand  in  the  inner  breast  pocket  of  his  Eton 
jacket. 

M.  Bonzig  went  straight  to  him,  buttoned  up  and  se- 
vere— his  eyes  dancing,  and  glancing  from  right  to  left 
through  his  spectacles ;  and  Josselin  stood  up  very  po- 
litely. 

"  Sit  down  !"  said  M.  Bcnzig ;  and  sat  beside  him, 
and  talked  to  him  with  grim  austerity  for  ten  minutes 
or  more,  and  the  boy  seemed  very  penitent  and  sorry. 

Presently  he  drew  forth  from  his  pocket  his  white 
mouse,  and  showed  it  to  the  long  usher,  who  looked  at 
it  with  great  seeming  interest  for  a  long  time,  and  final- 
ly took  it  into  the  palm  of  his  own  hand — where  it  stood 
on  its  hind  legs — and  stroked  it  with  his  little  finger. 

Soon  Josselin  produced  a  small  box  of  chocolate  drops, 
which  he  opened  and  offered  to  M.  Bonzig,  who  took 
one  and  put  it  in  his  mouth,  and  seemed  to  like  it. 
Then  they  got  up  and  walked  to  and  fro  together,  and 
the  usher  put  his  arm  round  the  boy's  shoulder,  and 
there  was  peace  and  good-will  between  them  ;  and  before 
they  parted  Josselin  had  intrusted  his  white  mouse  to 
"le  grand  Bonzig" — who  intrusted  it  to  Mile.  Marce- 
line,  the  head  lingere,  a  very  kind  and  handsome  per- 
son, who  found  for  it  a  comfortable  home  in  an  old  bon- 


16 


bon-box  lined  with  blue  satin,  where  it  had  a  large 
family  and  fed  on  the  best,  and  lived  happily  ever  after. 

But  things  did  not  go  smoothly  for  Josselin  all  that 
Saturday  afternoon.  When  Bonzig  left,  the  boys  gath- 
ered round  "  le  nouveau,"  large  and  small,  and  asked 
questions.  And  just  before  the  bell  sounded  for  French 
literature,  I  saw  him  defending  himself  Avitli  his  two 
British  lists  against  Dugit,  a  big  boy  with  whiskers,  who 
had  him  by  the  collar  and  was  kicking  him  to  rights.  It 
seems  that  Dugit  had  called  him,  in  would-be  English, 
"  Pretty  voman/'  and  this  had  so  offended  him  that  he 
had  hit  the  whiskered  one  straight  in  the  eye. 

Then  French  literature  for  the  qtiatriime  till  six ; 
then  dinner  for  all — soup,  boiled  beef  (not  salt),  lentils  ; 
and  Gruyere  cheese,  quite  two  ounces  each  ;  then  French 
rounders  till  half  past  seven ;  then  lesson  preparation 
(with  Monte  Cristas  in  one's  lap,  or  Mysteries  of  Paris, 
or  Wandering  Jews)  till  nine. 

Then,  ding-dang-dong,  and,  at  the  sleepy  usher's  nod, 
a  sleepy  boy  would  rise  and  recite  the  perfunctory  even- 
ing prayer  in  a  dull  singsong  voice — beginning,  "Notre 
Pore,  qui  etes  aux  cieux,  vous  dont  le  regard  scrutateur 
penStre  j usque  dans  les  replis  les  plus  profonds  de  nos 
coeurs/'  etc.,  etc.,  and  ending,  **au  nom  du  Pere,  du 
Fils,  et  du  St.  Esprit,  ainsi  soit-il !" 

And  then,  bed — Josselin  in  my  dormitory,  but  a  long 
way  ofE,  between  d'Adhemar  and  Laferte  ;  while  Palai- 
seau  snorted  and  sniffed  himself  to  sleep  in  the  bed  next 
mine,  and  Rapaud  still  tried  to  read  the  immortal  works 
of  the  elder  Dumas  by  the  light  of  a  little  oil-lamp  six 
yards  otf,  suspended  from  ii  nail  in  the  blank  wall  over 
the  chimney-piece. 


The  Institution  F.  Brossard  was  a  very  expensive  pri- 


A   LITTLE  rEACE-MAKEU 


pri- 


18 


vate  scliool,  just  twice  as  expensive  as  tlie  most  expen- 
sive of  the  Parisian  public  schools — Ste.-Barbe,  Fran§ois 
Premier,  Louis-le-CJrand,  etc. 

These  great  colleges,  which  were  good  enough  for  the 
sons  of  Louis  Philippe,  were  not  thought  good  enough 
for  me  by  my  dear  luother,  who  was  Irish,  and  whose 
only  brother  had  been  at  Eton,  and  was  now  captain  in 
an  English  cavalry  regiment — so  she  had  aristocratic  no- 
tions.    It  used  to  be  rather  an  Irish  failing  in  those  days. 

My  father,  James  Maurice,  also  English  (and  a  little 
Scotch),  and  by  no  means  an  aristocrat,  was  junior  part- 
ner in  the  great  firm  of  Vougeot-Conti  et  Cic  wine  mer- 
chants, Dijon.  And  at  Dijon  1  had  spent  much  of  my 
childhood,  and  been  to  a  day  school  there,  and  led  a  very 
happy  life  indeed. 

Then  I  was  sent  to  Brossard's  school,  in  the  Avenue  de 
St. -Cloud,  Paris,  where  I  was  again  very  happy,  and  fond 
of  (nearly)  everybody,  from  the  Splendid  head  nuister  and 
his  handsome  sou,  Monsieur  ]\Ierovee,  down  to  Antoine 
and  Francisque,  the  men-servants,  and  Pere  .laurion, 
the  concierge,  and  his  wife,  who  sold  croquets  and  pains 
d'epices  and  "blom-boudingues,"  and  sucre-d'orge  and 
nougat  and  pate  de  guimauvo  ;  als(>  praliiu's,  dragees, 
and  gray  sandy  cakes  of  chocolate  a  penny  apiece  ;  and 
gave  one  unlimited  credit;  and  never  dunned  one,  un- 
less bribed  to  do  so  by  parents,  so  as  to  impress  on  us 
small  boys  a  proper  horror  of  debt. 

Whatever  priiuMples  I  have  held  through  liTo  on  this 
important  subject  1  set  down  to  a  private  interview  my 
mother  had  with  le  pere  et  la  m^re  Jauriou,  to  whom  I 
had  run  in  debt  five  francs  during  the  horrible  winter  of 
'47-8.  They  made  my  life  a  hideous  burden  to  me  for  a 
whole  summer  term,  and  I  have  never  owed  any  one  a 
penny  since. 


i 


19 


The  Institution  consisted  of  four  separate  buildings, 
or  ''corps  dc  log  is." 

In  the  middk',  dominating  the  situation,  was  a  Greco- 
Roman  pavilion,  with  a  handsome  Doric  portico  elevated 
ten  or  twelve  feet  above  the  ground,  on  a  large,  hand- 
some terrace  paved  with  asphalt  and  shaded  by  horse- 
chestnut  trees.  Under  this  noble  esplanade,  aiul  venti- 
lating themselves  into  it,  were  the  kitchen  and  oflices 
and  pantry,  and  also  tlie  refectory — a  long  room,  fur- 
nished with  two  parallel  tables,  covered  at  the  top  by  a 
greenish  oil-cloth  spotted  all  over  with  small  black  disks; 
and  alongside  of  these  tables  were  wooden  forms  for  the 
boys  to  sit  together  at  meat — ''la  table  des  grands,"  "la 
table  des  petits,"  each  big  enough  for  thirty  boys  [ind 
three  or  four  masters.  M.  Hrossard  and  his  family  break- 
fasted and  dined  apart,  in  their  own  private  dining-room, 
close  by. 

In  this  big  refectory,  three  times  daily,  at  7.30  in  the 
morning,  at  noon,  and  at  0  v.  m.  ,  boys  and  masters  took 
their  quotidian  sustenance  quite  informally,  without  any 
laying  of  cloths  or  saying  of  grace  either  before  or  after  ; 
one  ate  there  to  live — one  did  not  live  merely  to  eat,  at 
the  Pension  lirossard. 

Breakfast  consisted  of  a  thick  souj),  rich  in  dark-hued 
garden  produce,  and  a  large  hunk  of  bread — except  on 
Thursdays,  when  a  }>at  of  butter  was  served  out  to  each 
boy  instead  of  that  Spartan  broth — that  "  brouet  noir 
des  Lacedemoniens,"as  we  called  it. 

Everybody  who  has  lived  in  l-'rance  knows  how  good 
French  butter  can  often  be — and  French  bread.  We 
triturated  each  our  pat  with  rock-salt  and  ma<le  a  round 
ball  of  it,  and  dug  a  hole  in  our  hunk  to  put  it  in,  and 
ate  it  in  tj)e  i)lay-ground  with  clasp-knives,  making  it 
lust  us  lung  as  we  could. 


30 


This,  and  tlie  hiilf-holiday  in  the  afternoon,  made 
Thnrsday  a  thiy  to  be  marked  with  a  white  stone.  When 
you  are  up  at  five  in  summer,  at  lialf  past  five  in  the 
winter,  and  hjive  had  an  liour  and  a  half  or  two  hours' 
preparation  before  your  first  meal  at  7.30,  French  bread- 
and-butter  is  not  a  bad  thing  to  break  your  fast  with. 

Then,  from  eight  till  twelve,  class  —  Latin,  Ureek, 
French,  English,  German — and  mathematics  and  geome- 
try— history,  geography,  chciiiistry,  physics — everything 
tliat  you  must  get  to  know  before  you  can  hope  to  obtaii* 
your  degree  of  Bachelor  of  Letters  or  Scien(x»s,  or  be  ad- 
mitted to  the  Polytechnic  School,  or  the  Normal,  or  tlie 
('entral,  or  that  of  Mines,  or  that  of  Koads  and  Jiridges, 
or  the  Military  School  of  St.  Cyr,  or  the  Naval  School  of 
the  Borda.  All  this  was  fifty  years  ago;  of  course 
names  of  schools  may  have  cluinged,  and  even  the  sci- 
ences themselves. 

Then,  at  twelve,  the  second  breakfast,  meat  (or  salt 
fish  on  Fridays),  a  dish  of  vegetables,  lentils,  red  or 
white  beans,  salad,  potatoes,  etc.;  a  dessert,  which  con- 
sisted of  fruit  or  cheese,  or  a  French  pudding.  This 
baiKjuet  over,  a  nuister  would  stand  up  in  his  place  and 
call  for  silence,  and  read  out  h)ud  the  list  of  boys  who 
were  to  be  kept  in  during  the  play-hour  that  followed  : 

"A  la  retcnue,  Messieurs  Maurice,  Kapaud,  de  Villars, 
Jolivet,  Sponde,"  etc.  Then  phiy  till  I.IJO;  and  very 
good  play,  too  ;  rounders,  whicli  are  l)etter  and  far  more 
complicated  in  France  than  in  England;  "barres"; 
"  barres  traversieres,"as  rough  a  game  as  football;  fly  the 
garter,  or  "la  raie,"  etc.,  etc.,  according  to  the  season. 
Ami  then  afteriu)on  study,  at  the  summons  of  that  dread- 
ful bell  whose  music  was  so  sweet  when  it  rang  the  hour 
for  meals  or  recreation  or  sleep — so  hideously  discordant 
at  5.30  on  a  foggy  December  Monday  morning. 


21 


Altogether  eleven  liours  work  daily  and  four  iionrs 
play,  and  sleep  from  nine  till  live  or  half  past ;  I  find 
this  leaves  half  an  liour  unaccounted  for,  so  1  must  have 
made  a  mistake  somewhere.  But  it  all  hap})ened  fifty 
years  ago,  so  it's  not  of  much  consequence  now. 

Probably  they  liave  changed  all  that  in  France  by  this 
time,  and  made  school  life  a  little  easier  there,  esr'X'ially 
for  nice  little  English  boys — and  nice  little  French  boys 
too.  I  hope  so,  very  much  ;  for  French  boys  can  be  as 
nice  us  any,  especially  at  such  institutions  as  F.  Bros- 
sard's,  if  there  are  any  left. 

Most  of  my  comrades,  aged  from  seven  to  nineteen  or 
twenty,  were  the  sons  of  well-to-do  fathers^soldiers, 
sailors,  rentiers,  owners  of  land,  public  otiicials,  in  profes- 
sions or  business  or  trade.  A  dozen  or  so  were  of  aristo- 
cratic descent — three  or  four  very  great  swells  indeed  ; 
for  instance,  two  manjuises  (one  of  whom  spoke  English, 
having  an  F^nglish  mother);  a  count  bearing  a  string  of 
beautiful  names  a  thousand  years  old,  and  even  more — 
for  they  were  constantly  turning  uj)  in  the  Classe  d'llis- 
toire  de  France  au  moyen  age  ;  a  Belgian  viscount  of 
immense  wealth  and  immense  good-nature;  and  several 
very  rich  Jews,  wiio  were  neither  very  clever  nor  very 
stuj)id,  but.  as  a  rule,  rather  poj)ular. 

Then  we  had  a  few  of  humble  station — the  son  of  the 
wonum  who  washed  for  us  ;  Jules,  the  luitural  son  of  a 
brave  old  caporal  in  the  trente-septieme  U'gere  (a  country- 
man of  M.  Brossard's),  who  was  not  well  oil — so  I  sus- 
pect his  son  was  caught  and  fed  for  iu)thing — the  Bros- 
sards  were  very  liberal ;  Filosel,  the  only  child  of  a 
small  retail  hosier  in  the  Hue  St. -Denis  (who  thought  no 
sacrifice  too  great  to  keep  his  son  at  such  a  lirst-rato 
private  school),  and  others. 

During  the  seven  years  1  spent  at  Brossard's  I  never 


0,11 


once  heard  paternal  wealth  (or  the  want  of  it)  or  pater- 
nal rank  or  position  alluded  to  by  master,  pupil,  or  ser- 
vant— especially  never  a  word  or  an  allusion  that  could 
have  given  a  moment's  umbrage  to  the  most  sensitive 
little  only  son  of  a  well-to-do  West  End  cheese-monger 
that  ever  got  smuggled  into  a  private  suburban  boarding- 
school  kept  **for  the  sons  of  gentlemen  only/'  and  was 
so  chaffed  and  bullied  there  that  his  father  had  to  take 
him  away,  and  send  him  to  Eton  instead,  where  the 
**8ons  of  gentlemen'"  have  better  manners,  it  seems;  or 
even  to  France,  where  ''  the  sons  of  gentlemen "  have 
the  best  manners  of  all — or  used  to  liave  before  a  certain 
2d  of  December — as  distinctly  1  remember  ;  nous  avons 
change  tout  cela ! 

The  head  master  was  a  famous  repul)lican,  and  after 
February,  '48,  was  elected  a  '*representant  du  peuple  " 
for  the  Dauphine,  and  sat  in  the  Chamber  of  Deputies 
— for  a  very  short  time,  alas  ! 

8o  I  fancy  that  the  titled  and  particled  boys — *'les 
nobles  ' — were  of  families  that  had  drifted  away  from 
the  lily  and  white  ilag  of  their  loyal  ancestors — from 
Rome  and  the  Pope  and  the  past. 

Anyhow,  none  of  our  young  nobles,  when  at  home, 
seemed  to  live  in  the  noble  Faubourg  across  the  river, 
and  there  were  no  clericals  or  ultramontanes  among  us, 
high  or  low — we  were  all  red,  white,  and  blue  in  equal 
and  impartial  combination.     All  this  par  jxi re fif/H).se. 

On  the  asphalt  terrace  also,  but  separated  from  the 
head  nuister's  classic  habitation  by  a  small  square  space, 
was  the  h'ni/fri'r,  numuged  by  Mile.  Marceline  and  her 
two  subordiiuites,  Constaiu'c  and  i'V'licite;  and  beneath 
this,  le  pere  et  la  mere  Jaurion  sold  their  cheaj)  goodies, 
and  jealously  guarded  the  gates  that  secluded  us  from  the 
wicked  world  outside — where  women  arc,  uud  luorchuuts 


23 


of  tobacco,  and  cafes  wliere  yon  can  sip  the  opalescent 
absinthe,  and  libraries  where  you  can  buy  books  more 
diverting  than  the  Adventures  of  Telemachus  ! 

On  the  opposite,  or  western,  side  was  the  jj^ymnastic 
ground,  enclosed  in  a  wire  fence,  but  free  of  access  at 
all  times — a  place  of  paramount  importance  in  all  French 
schools,  public  and  private. 

From  the  doors  of  the  refectory  the  general  play- 
grouiul  sloped  gently  down  northwards  to  the  Kond-point, 
where  it  was  bounded  by  double  gates  of  wood  and  iron 
that  were  always  shut ;  and  on  each  hither  side  of  these 
rose  an  oblong  dwelling  of  red  brick,  two  stories  high, 
and  capable  of  accommodating  thirty  boys,  sleeping  or 
waking,  at  work  or  rest  or  play  ;  for  in  bad  weather  wo 
played  indoors,  or  tried  to,  chess,  draughts,  backgam- 
mon, and  the  like — even  blind-man's-bulf  {Colin  Mail- 
lard) — even  puss  in  the  corner  {aux  quatre  coins!). 

All  the  class-rooms  and  school-rooms  were  on  the 
uround  -  floor  ;    above,    the    dormitories    and    masters' 


rooms 

TV 


These  two  buildings  were  symmetrical ;  one  held  the 
boys  over  fourteen,  from  the  third  class  up  to  the  first ; 
the  other  (into  the  "'sallo  d'etudes ''  of  which  the  reader 
has  already  been  admitted),  the  boys  from  the  fourth 
down  to  the  eighth,  or  lowest,  form  of  all — just  the  re- 
verse of  an  English  school. 

On  either  side  of  the  play-ground  were  narrow  strips 
of  garden  cultivated  by  boys  whose  tastes  lay  that  way, 
and  small  arbors  overgrown  with  convolvulus  and  other 
creepers — snug  little  verd.'int  retreats,  where  one  fed  the 
mind  on  literature  not  sa  ictioned  by  the  authorities,  and 
smoked  cigarettes  of  <  aj»oral,  and  even  colored  pipes,  and 
was  sick  without  fear  of  detection  {piquait  son  renard 
mns  crainte  d'etre  colle). 


34 


Finally,  behind  I'oro  lirossard's  (Jiceroniaii  Villa,  on 
tlie  south,  was  a  handsonio  garden  (wo  called  it  'J^iscu- 
liini);  a  green  llowcry  pleasaunee  reserved  for  the  head 
master's  married  daughter  (Madame  (Jermain)  and  her 
family — good  peo})le  with  whom  we  had  iu)thing  to  do. 

Would  1  (ujuld  suhjoin  a  ground-[)lan  of  the  Institu- 
tion F.  Hrossard,  where  IJarty  .Josselin  spent  four  such 
happy  years,  and  was  so  universally  and  singularly  poj)- 
ular  I 

Why  should  I  take  such  pains  about  all  this,  and  dwell 
so  laboriously  on  all  these  minute  details  ? 

Firstly,  because  it  all  concerns  Josselin  and  the  story  of 
his  life — and  1  am  so  proud  and  happy  to  be  the  biogra- 
pher of  such  a  man,  at  his  own  often  expressed  desire, 
that  I  hardly  know  where  to  leave  off  and  what  to  leave 
out.  Also,  this  is  quite  a  new  trade  for  me,  who  have 
only  dealt  hitherto  in  foreign  wines,  ami  British  party 
politics,  and  bimetallism — and  can  only  write  in  tele- 
graphese ! 

Secondly,  because  T  find  it  such  a  keen  personal  joy  to 
evoke  and  follow  out,  and  realize  to  myself  by  means  of 
pen  and  pencil,  all  these  personal  reminiscences  ;  and 
with  such  a  capital  excuse  for  prolixity  I 

At  the  top  of  every  page  I  have  to  pull  myself  together 
to  remind  myself  that  it  is  not  of  the  liight  llonorablo 
Sir  Robert  Maurice,  Bart.,  M.P.,  that  1  am  telling  the 
tale — any  one  can  do  that — but  of  a  certain  Englishman 
who  wrote  Sanhui/.r,  to  the  everlasting  joy  and  pride 
of  the  land  of  his  fathers — ami  of  a  certain  French- 
man who  wrote  Heiihe  mix  (jrands  picd.s,"  and  moved  his 
niof/icr-cowutvy  to  such  delight  of  tears  and  tender  laugh- 
tor  as  it  had  never  known  before. 

Dear  me  !  the  boys  who  lived  and  learnt  at  Brossard's 
school  tifty  years  ago.  and  the  uuisters  who  taught  there 


25 


(peace  to  their  asiies  !),  are  far  more  to  my  taste  than  the 
actual  Imman  beiiiurs  amoiij;  whom  my  dull  existence  of 
business  and  politics  and  society  is  mostly  spent  in  these 
days.  The  school  must  have  broken  up  somewhere 
about  the  early  fifties.  The  stuccoed  Doric  dwellinjT:  was 
loni>'  since  replaced  by  an  important  stone  mansion,  in  a 
very  different  style  of  architecture  —  the  abode  cd'  a 
wealthy  banker — and  this  aijain,  later,  by  a  palace  many 
stories  high.  The  two  school-houses  in  red  brick  are  no 
more  ;  the  play-ground  grew  into  a  luxuriant  garden, 
where  a  dozen  very  tall  trees  overtopped  the  rest ;  from 
their  evident  age  and  their  position  in  regard  to  each 
other  they  must  have  been  old  friends  of  mine  grown  out 
of  all  knowledge. 

I  saw  them  only  twenty  years  ago,  from  the  top  of  a 
Passy  omnibus,  and  recognized  every  one  of  them.  I 
went  from  the  Arc  de  Triomphe  to  Passy  and  back  quite 
a  dozen  times,  on  purpose  —  once  for  each  tree!  It 
touched  me  to  think  how  often  the  author  of  Sar- 
donyx has  stood  leaning  his  back  against  one  of  those 
giants — (lu  piquet ! 

They  are  now  no  more  ;  and  Passy  omnibuses  no  longer 
ply  up  and  down  the  Allee  du  Bois  de  Boulogne,  which 
is  now  an  avenue  of  palaces. 

An  umbrageous  lane  that  led  from  the  Rond-point  to 
Chaillot  (that  very  forgettable,  and  by  me  quite  forgot- 
ten, quarter)  separated  the  Institution  F.  Brossard  from 
the  Pensionnat  Melanie  Jalabert  —  a  beautiful  pseudo- 
Gothic  castle  which  was  tenanted  for  a  while  by  Prince 
de  Carabas-Chenonceauv  after  Mile.  Jalabert  had  broken 
up  her  ladies'  school  in  ISf'.). 

My  mother  boarded  iind  lodged  there,  with  I'ly  little 
sister,  in  the  summer  of  1847.  There  were  oio  or  two 
other  English  lady  boarders,  half-pupils — mucii  younger 


26 


than  my  mother — indeed,  they  may  be  alive  now.  If 
tliey  are,  and  tliis  should  happen  to  meet  their  eye,  may 
I  ask  them  to  remember  kindly  the  Irish  wife  of  the 
Scotch  merchant  of  French  wines  wiio  supplied  them 
with  the  innocent  vintage  of  ]\[acon  (ah  I  who  knows 
that  innocence  better  than  l?),  and  his  pretty  little 
daughter  who  played  the  piano  so  nicely  ;  may  I  beg 
them  also  not  to  think  it  necessary  to  communicate  with 
me  on  the  subject,  or,  if  they  do,  not  to  expect  an  an- 
swer ? 

One  night  Mile.  Jalal)ert  gave  a  small  dance,  and  Me- 
rovee  Brossard  was  invited,  and  also  half  a  dozen  of  his 
favorite  pupils,  and  a  fnir-haired  English  boy  of  thirteen 
danced  with  the  beautiful  Miss . 

They  came  to  grief  and  fell  torother  in  a  heap  on  the 
slippery  floor  ;  but  no  bones  were  broken,  and  there  was 
much  good-natured  laughter  at  their  expense.     If  Miss 

(that  was)  is  still  among  the  quick,  and  remembers, 

it  may  interest  her  to  know  that  that  fair-haired  Eng- 
lish boy's  name  was  no  less  than  Bartholomew  Josselin  ; 
and  that  another  English  boy,  somewhat  thick -set  and 
stumpy,  and  not  much  to  look  at,  held  her  in  deep  love, 
admiration,  and  awe — and  has  not  forgotten  ! 

If  I  happen  to  mention  this,  it  is  not  with  a  view  of 
tempting  her  into  any  correspondence  about  this  little 
episode  of  bygone  years,  should  this  ever  meet  her  eye. 

The  Sunday  morning  that  followed  Barty's  debut  at 
Brossard's  the  boys  went  to  church  in  the  Rue  do 
i'figlise,  Passy  —  and  he  with  them,  for  he  had  been 
brought  up  a  Koman  Catholic.  And  I  went  round  to 
Mile.  Jalabert's  to  see  my  mother  and  sister. 

I  told  them  all  about  the  new  boy,  and  they  were 
much  interested.     Suddenly  my  mother  exclaimed  : 

''  Bartholomew  Josselin  ?  why,  dear  me  !  that  must  be 


27 


were 


Lord  Rnnswick's  son  —  Lord  Riinswick,  who  was  the 
eklest  son  of  the  present  Marquis  of  Whithy.  He  was  in 
the  17th  hincers  with  your  uncle  Cliarles,  who  was  very  fond 
of  him.  He  left  the  army  twenty  years  ago,  and  married 
Lady  Selina  Jobhouse — and  his  wife  went  mad.  Then 
lie  fell  in  love  with  the  famous  Antoinette  Josselin  at 
the  'Bourt'es/'  and  wanted  so  much  to  nuirry  her  that  he 
tried  to  get  a  divorce  ;  it  was  tried  in  the  House  of 
Lords,  I  believe;  but  he  didn't  succeed — so  they — a — 
well  —  they  contracted  a  —  a  morganatic  marriage,  you 
know  ;  and  your  friend  was  born.  And  poor  Lord  Runs- 
wiciv  was  killed  in  a  duel  about  a  dog,  when  his  son  was 
two  years  old  ;  and  his  mother  left  the  stage,  and — " 

Just  here  the  beautiful  Miss  came  in  with  her 

sister,  and  there  was  no  more  of  Josselin's  family  his- 
tory ;  and  I  forgot  all  about  it  for  the  day.  For  I  pas- 
sionately loved   the   beautiful   Miss  ;    I   was  just 

thirteen  ! 

But  next  morning  I  said  to  him  at  breakfast,  in  Eng- 
lish, 

"  Wasn't  your  father  killed  in  a  duel  ?" 

**  Yes,"  said  Barty,  looking  grave, 

"  Wasn't  he  called  Lord  Runswick  ?" 

**  Yes,"  said  Barty,  looking  graver  still. 

''Then  why  are  you  called  Josselin  ?'' 

''Ask  no  questions  and  you'll  get  no  lies,"  said  Barty, 
looking  very  grave  indeed — and  I  dropped  the  subject. 

And  here  I  may  as  well  rapidly  go  through  the  well- 
known  story  of  his  birth  and  early  childhood. 

His  father,  Lord  Runswick,  fell  desperately  in  love 
with  the  beautiful  Antoinette  Josselin  after  his  own 
wife  had  gone  hopelessly  mad.  He  failed  to  obtain  a 
divorce,  naturally  ;  Antoinette  was  as  much  in  iove  with 
him,  and  they  lived  together  as  muu  iiud  wife,  and  Barty 


28 


wjis  born.  They  were  said  to  l)e  tlie  luiiulsoinest  couple 
in  Paris,  and  iminensely  [)opiilar  ain()ii<?  all  who  knew 
them,  though  of  course  society  did  not  o})en  its  doors 
to  la  belle  Madame  de  llonsvic,  as  she  was  called. 

She  was  tiie  daughter  of  ])oor  fisher-folk  in  Le  Pollet, 
Dieppe.  I,  with  I>arty  for  a  guide,  have  seen  the  lowly 
dwelling  where  her  infancy  and  childhood  were  spent, 
and  which  Harty  remembered  well,  and  also  su(di  of  her 
kin  as  was  still  alive  iii  1810,  and  felt  it  was  good  to 
come  of  such  a  race,  humble  as  they  were.  They  were 
physically  splendid  people,  alnios  as  s})lendid  as  Jiarty 
liimself  ;  and,  as  1  was  told  by  many  who  knew  them 
well,  as  good  to  know  and  live  /ith  as  they  were  good 
to  look  at — all  that  was  easy  to  see — and  their  manners 
were  delightful. 

When  Antoinette  was  twelve,  she  went  to  stay  in  Paris 
with  her  uncle  and  aunt,  who  were  concierges  to  Prince 
Scorchakofl'  in  the  Hue  du  Fanl)ourg  St.-llonore  ;  next 
door,  or  next  door  but  one,  to  the  Elysee  Bourbon,  as  it 
was  called  then.  And  there  the  Princess  took  a  fancy  to 
lier,  and  had  her  carefully  educated,  especially  in  music  ; 
for  the  child  had  a  charming  voice  and  a  great  musical 
talent,  besides  being  beautiful  to  the  eye — gifts  which 
her  son  inherited. 

Then  she  became  for  three  or  four  years  a  pu])il  at  the 
Conservatoire,  and  finally  went  on  the  stage,  ami  was  soon 
one  of  the  most  brilliant  stars  of  the  I'arisian  theatre  at 
its  most  brilliant  period. 

Then  she  met  the  handsome  Enrlish  lord,  who  was 
forty,  and  they  fell  in  love  with  each  other,  and  all  hap- 
pened as  I  have  told. 

In  the  spring  of  1S:{T  Lord  Uunswick  was  killed  in  a 
duel  by  Lieutenant  Hondelis,  of  the  deuxieme  Spahis. 
Antoinette's  dog  had  jumped  up  to  play  with  the  lieu- 


L' 


couple 
')  know 
doors 

l'(.IU't, 
owly 
.^I»eiit, 
of  her 
)0(1    to 

y  wore 

Harty 

<   tlioin 

0  good 
uniiers 

1  Paris 
Prince 
;  next 

1,  as  it 
iney  to 
nusic ; 
lusical 
which 

at  the 
s  soon 
tre  at 

T  Avas 
ha])- 

iii  a 
•ahis. 
lieii- 


LOHD    HUNSWICK    AND   ANTOINKTTE   JOSSKL 


IN 


30 


tenant,  who  struck  it  with  his  cane  ^for  he  was  "en  pe- 
kin,"  it  appears — in  mufti) ;  and  Lord  Kunswick  laid  his 
own  cane  across  the  Frenchman's  back  ;  and  next  morn- 
ing they  fought  with  swords,  by  the  Mare  aux  Biclies,  in 
the  Bois  de  lioulogne  —  a  little  secluded,  sedgy  2)Ool, 
hardly  more  than  six  inches  deep  and  six  yards  across. 
Barty  and  I  have  often  skated  there  as  boys. 

The  Englishman  was  run  through  fit  the  first  lunge, 
and  fell  dead  on  the  spot. 

A  few  years  ago  Barty  met  the  son  of  the  man  who 
killed  Lord  Runswick — it  was  at  the  French  Embassy  in 
Albert  Gate.  They  were  introduced  to  each  other,  and 
M.  Rondelis  told  Barty  how  his  own  father's  life  had 
been  poisoned  by  sorrow  and  remorse  at  having  had  "la 
main  si  malheureuse"  on  that  fatal  morning  by  the  Mare 
aux  Biches. 

Poor  Antoinette,  mad  with  gief,  left  the  stage,  and 
went  with  her  little  boy  to  live  in  the  Pollet,  near  her 
parents.  Three  years  later  she  died  there,  of  typhus,  and 
Barty  was  left  an  orphan  and  penniless  ;  for  Lord  Runs- 
wick had  been  poor,  and  lived  beyond  his  means,  and 
died  in  debt. 

Lord  Archibald  Rohan,  a  favorite  younger  brother  of 
Runswick's  (not  the  heir),  came  to  Dieppe  from  Dover 
(where  he  was  quartered  with  his  regiment,  the  7th  Royal 
Fusileers)  to  see  the  boy,  and  took  a  fancy  to  him,  and 
brought  him  back  to  Dover  to  show  his  wife,  who  was 
also  French  —  a  daughter  of  the  old  Gascon  family  of 
Lonlay-Savignac,  who  had  gone  into  trade  (chocolate) 
and  become  immensely  rich.  They  (the  Rolians)  had 
been  married  eight  years,  and  had  as  yet  no  children  of 
their  own.  Lady  Archibald  was  delighted  with  the  child, 
who  was  quite  beautiful.  She  fell  in  love  with  the  little 
creature  at  the  first  sight  of  him — and  fed  him,  on  the 


di 


eveiiin<(  of  liis  arriviil.  with  cnmipets  mid  buttered  toast. 
And  in  return  lie  danced  "La  Dieppcuse  "  for  lier,  and 
sang  her  a  little  ungraniniatical  ditty  in  praise  of  wine 
and  women.     It  began  : 

"  Beuvons,  beuvons,  beuvons  donn 

De  ce  via  le  meilleiir  dii  monde  . 
Beuvons,  beuvons.  beuvons  dorc 

De  ee  viii,  car  il  est  tresbon  i 
Si  je  ii'cn  l)euvions  pas, 

.T'lunions  la  pepi-e  ! 
Ce  qui  me.  ..." 

I  have  forgotten  the  rest — indeed,  1  am  not  quite  sure 
that  it  is  tit  for  the  drawing-room  I 

"  Ah,  nion  Dieu  !  quel  amour  d 'enfant  I    Oh  I  gardons- 
le  I"  cried  my  lady,  and  they  kept  him. 

I  can  imagine  the  scene.  Indeed,  Lady  Arcliibald  has 
described  it  to  me,  and  Barty  remembered  it  well.  It 
was  his  earliest  English  recollection,  and  he  has  loved 
buttered  toast  and  crumpets  ever  since — as  well  as  wom- 
en and  wine.  And  thus  he  was  adopted  by  the  Archi- 
bald Kohans.  They  got  him  an  English  governess  and 
a  pony;  and  in  two  years  he  went  to  a  day  school  in 
Dover,  kept  by  a  Miss  Stone,  who  is  actually  alive  at 
present  and  remembers  him  well ;  and  so  he  became 
(juite  a  little  English  boy,  but  kept  up  his  French 
through  Lady  Archibald,  who  was  passionately  devoted 
to  him,  although  by  this  time  she  had  a  little  daughter 
of  her  own,  whom  Barty  always  looked  upon  as  his  sis- 
ter, and  who  is  now  dead.  (She  became  Lord  Frognal's 
wife — he  died  in  1870 — and  she  afterwards  married  Mr. 
Justice  Robertson.) 

Barty's  French  grandfather  and  grand nujther  came 
over  from  Dieppe  once  a  year  to  see  him,  and  were  well 
pleased  with  the  happy  condition  of  his  new  life  ;  and 


82 


tlie  more  Lord  jiiid  Lady  Areliil)cild  saw  of  these  gnuid- 
pareiits  of  liis,  the  more  j)le!ised  Vnvy  were  tliat  he  luid 
become  the  eliihl  of  their  adoption.  For  they  were  first- 
rate  people  to  descend  from,  tliese  simple  toilers  of  the 
sea ;  hetter,  perhaps,  cwteris  paribns,  than  even  the  Ro- 
hans  themselves. 

All  this  early  phase  of  little  Josselin's  life  seems  to 
have  been  singularly  happy.  Every  year  at  Christmas 
he  went  with  the  Rohans  to  Castle  liolian  in  Yorksbire, 
where  his  English  grandfatlier  lived,  the  Marquis  of 
Whitby — and  where  lie  was  petted  and  made  much  of  by 
all  the  members,  young  and  old  (especially  fenuile),  of 
that  very  ancient  family,  which  had  originally  come 
from  Brittany  in  France,  as  the  name  shows  ;  but  were 
not  millionaires,  and  never  had  been. 

Often,  too,  they  went  to  Paris — and  in  1847  Colonel 
Lord  Archil)ald  sold  out,  and  they  elected  to  go  and  live 
there,  in  the  Hue  du  liac  ;  and  liarty  was  sent  to  the 
Institution  F.  lirossard.  where  he  was  soon  destined  to 
become  the  most  popular  boy,  with  boys  and  masters 
alike,  that  had  ever  been  in  the  school  (in  any  school,  I 
should  think),  in  spite  of  conduct  that  was  too  often  the 
reverse  of  exemphiry. 

Indeed,  even  from  ins  early  boyhood  he  was  the  most 
extraordinarily  gifted  creature  1  have  ever  known,  or  even 
heard  of;  a  kind  of  spontiineous  humoi'ous  Criciiton,  to 
whom  ail  things  came  easily — and  life  itself  as  an  un- 
commoidy  good  joke.  During  tliat  summer  term  of 
1847  r  did  iu)t  see  very  much  of  him.  lie  was  in  tne 
class  below  mine,  and  took  up  with  Laferte  ami  little 
Busi-iV-Habutin,  who  were  tirst-rate  boys,  and  laughed  at 
everything  he  said,  and  worshipped  him.  So  did  every- 
body else,  sooner  or  later  ;  indt'cd,  it  soon  became  evi- 
dent that  he  was  a  most  exceptional  little  person. 


> 
o 

0 
K 

> 
'A 

H 


34 


In  the  first  place,  liis  beauty  was  absolutely  angelic,  as 
will  be  readily  believed  by  all  who  have  known  him  since. 
The  mere  sight  of  him  as  a  boy  made  people  pity  his 
father  and  mother  for  being  dead  ! 

Then  he  had  a  charming  gift  of  singing  little  French 
and  English  ditties,  comic  or  touching,  with  his  delight- 
ful fresh  young  pipe,  and  accompanying  himself  quite 
nicely  on  either  piano  or  guitar  without  really  knowing 
a  note  of  music.  Then  ho  could  draw  caricatures  that 
we  boys  thought  inimitable,  much  funnier  than  Cham's 
or  Bertall's  or  Gavarni's,  and  collected  and  treasured  up. 
I  have  dozens  of  tliem  now — they  make  me  laugh  still, 
and  bring  back  memories  of  which  the  charm  is  inde- 
scribable ;  and  thoir  pathos,  to  me  ! 

And  then  how  funny  he  was  himself,  without  effort, 
and  with  a  fun  that  never  failed  !  He  was  a  born  buf- 
foon of  the  graceful  kind  —  more  whelp  or  kitten  than 
monkey  —  ever  playing  the  fool,  in  and  out  of  season, 
but  somehow  always  d  projws ;  and  French  boys  love  a 
boy  for  that  more  than  anything  else;  or  did,  in  those  days. 

Such  very  simple  buffooneries  as  they  were,  too — that 
gave  him  (and  us)  such  s^tupendous  delight ! 

For  instance — he  in  ;:  tling  at  evening  study  between 
Bussy-Habutin  and  Laintc' ;  M.  Bonzig  is  usher  for  the 


evennig. 


At  8.O.'  JJussy-llabutin  gives  way;  in  a  whisper  he  in- 
forms Barty  that  he  means  to  take  a  nap  {"■pi'fjHcr  un 
c/n'i'N''),  with  his  (Jradus  opened  before  him,  and  his 
hand  supi)orting  his  weary  brow  as  though  in  deep  study. 
"  But,"  says  he — 

**  If  Bonzig  finds  me  oui  (si  Bonzig  me  colle),  give  me 
a  gentle  nudge  I" 

*' All  right !"  says  Barty — and  off  goes  Bussy-Kabutin 
into  his  snooze. 


85 


8.45. — Poor  fat  littlo  Lafert6  falls  into  a  snooze  too, 
after  giving  Barty  just  the  same  commission — to  nudgo 
him  directly  he's  found  out  from  the  chairc. 

8.55. — Intense  silence  ;  everybody  hard  at  work.  Even 
Bonzig  is  satisfied  with  the  deep  stillness  and  studious 
recucillement  that  brood  over  the  scene  —  steady  pens 
going — quick  turning  over  of  leaves  of  the  (Jradus  ad 
Parnassum.  Suddenly  Barty  sticks  out  his  elbows  and 
nudges  both  his  neighbors  at  once,  and  both  Jump  up, 
exclaiming,  in  a  loud  voice  : 

"  Non,  m'sieur,  je  n'dors  pas.     J'travaille." 

Sensation.  Even  l^onzig  laughs — and  Barty  is  happy 
for  a  week. 

Or  else,  again  —  a  new  usher,  Monsieur  Gonpillon 
(from  Gascony)  is  on  duty  in  the  school -room  during 
afternoon  school,  lie  has  a  peculiar  way  of  saying  ''o^, 
voT  instead  of  "mii,  vous !"  to  any  boy  who  says  *'moi, 
m'sieur  ?"  on  being  found  fault  with  ;  and  perceiving 
this,  Barty  nninages  to  be  found  fault  with  every  five 
minutes,  und  always  says  "  moi,  m'sieur  ?"  so  as  to  elicit 
the  "^oS,  i'd!'"  that  gives  him  such  delight. 

At  length  M.  ({oui)ill()n  says, 

'STosselin,  if  you  force  me  to  say  'oe,  vd !'  to  you  once 
more,  you  shall  be  d  la  rctenne  for  a  week  !" 

**]\[()i,  m'sieur?"  says  Jjsselin,  (juite  innocently. 

*^  OCy  vOr  shouts  M.  Gou})ilk)n,  glaring  with  all  his 
might,  but  (juite  unconscious  tiuit  Barty  has  earned  the 
threatened  punishment !  And  again  Barty  is  happy  for 
a  week.     And  so  are  we. 

Such  was  liarty's  humor,  as  a  boy — mere  drivel — but 
of  such  a  kind  that  even  his  butts  were  fond  of  him. 
lie  would  nnike  M.  Bonzig  laugh  in  the  middle  of  his 
severest  penal  sentences,  and  tlius  deuioralize  the  whole 
i>ohool-room  aud  set  a  shocking  example,  uud  be  ordered 


36 


d  la  pcrfe  of  the  salle  d'etudea — an  exile  which  was  quite 
to  his  taste  ;  for  he  would  go  straight  off  to  the  lingerie 
and  entertain  Mile.  Marceline  and  Constance  and  Fe- 
licite  (who  all  three  adored  him)  with  comic  songs  and 
break -downs  of  his  own  invention,  and  imitations  of 
everybody  in  the  school,  lie  was  a  born  histrion  —  a 
k'uA  of  French  Artiiur  Roberts — but  very  beautiful  to 
the  fenuilo  eye,  and  also  always  dear  to  the  female  heart 
— a  most  delightful  gift  of  (Jod  ! 

Then  he  was  constantly  being  sent  for  when  boys' 
friends  and  parents  came  to  see  them,  that  he  might 
sing  and  play  the  fool  and  show  off  his  tricks,  and  so 
forth.  It  was  one  of  M.  Morovee's  greatest  delights  to 
put  him  through  liis  jiaces.  The  message  **on  demande 
Monsieur  Josselin  au  parloir"  would  be  brought  down 
once  or  twice  a  week,  sometimes  even  in  class  or  school 
room,  and  became  quite  a  by-word  in  the  school ;  and 
many  of  the  nuisters  thought  it  a  mistake  and  a  pity. 
But  Barty  by  no  moans  disliked  being  made  much  of 
and  showing  off  in  this  genial  manner. 

He  could  turn  le  pore  Brossard  round  his  little  finger, 
and  Merovee  too.  Whenever  an  extra  holiday  was  to 
be  begged  for,  or  a  favor  obtained  for  any  one,  or  the 
severity  of  a  pensuiu  mitigated,  liarty  was  the  messen- 
ger, and  seldom  failed. 

Ilis  constitution,  inherited  from  a  long  line  of  frugal 
SBfifaring  Nornum  ancestors  (not  to  mention  another  long 
lino  of  well-fed,  well-bred  Yorkshire  S(iuires),  was  mag- 
nificent. His  spirits  lu'ver  failed.  Ho  could  see  the 
satellites  of  Jupiter  with  the  naked  eye  ;  this  was  often 
tested  by  M.  Dumollard,  maitre  de  math6matif|ues  (et  de 
cosmographie),  who  had  a  telescope,  which,  with  a  little 
good-will  on  the  gazer's  j)urt,  nuide  Jupiter  look  as  big  as 
the  moon,  and  its  moons  like  stars  of  the  first  magnitude. 


87 


His  sense  of  hearing  was  also  exceptionally  keen.  He 
could  hear  a  watch  tick  in  the  next  room,  and  perceive 
very  high  sounds  to  which  ordinary  human  ears  are  deaf 
(this  was  found  out  later)  ;  and  when  we  played  blind- 
man's -buff  on  a  rainy  *iay,  he  could,  blindfolded,  tell 
every  boy  he  caught  hold  of — not  by  feeling  him  all  over 
like  the  rest  of  us,  but  by  the  mere  smell  of  his  hair,  or 
his  hands,  or  his  blouse  !  Xo  wonder  he  was  so  much 
more  alive  than  the  rest  of  us  !  According  to  the 
amiable,  modest,  polite,  delicately  humorous,  and  even 
tolerant  and  considerate  Professor  Max  Xordau,  this  per- 
fection of  the  olfactory  sense  ])roclaims  poor  Barty  a 
degenerate  !  I  only  wish  there  were  a  few  more  like  him, 
and  that  I  were  a  little  more  like  him  myself  ! 

By-the-n'iiy,  how  proud  young  (Jermany  must  feel  of 
its  enlightened  Ma^,  and  how  fond  of  him,  to  be  sure  ! 
Mes  compliments  ! 

But  the  most  astounding  thing  of  all  (it  seems  incred- 
ible, but  all  the  world  knows  it  by  this  time,  and  it  will 
be  accounted  for  later  on)  is  that  at  certain  times  and 
seasons  Barty  knew  by  an  infallible  instinct  where  the 
north  ?tv^s^  to  a  point.  Most  of  my  readers  will  remem- 
ber his  extraordinary  evidence  a^  a  witness  in  the  "  Kan- 
goon"  trial,  and  how  this  power  was  tested  in  open  court, 
and  how  important  were  the  issues  involved,  and  how 
he  refused  to  give  any  explanation  of  a  gift  so  extraor- 
dinary. 

It  was  often  tried  at  school  by  blindroldiug  him.  and 
turning  him  round  and  round  till  lie  was  giddy,  and  ask- 
ing him  to  i)oint  out  where  tlu'  north  pole  was.  or  tho 
north  star,  and  seven  or  eight  times  out  of  ten  the  an- 
swer was  unerringly  right.  Wiicn  he  tiiilctj.  he  knew 
beforehand  that  for  the  tinu'  being  he  had  m»si  ilie  power, 
but  could  never  say  why.     Little  Doctor  Lareher  could 


38 


never  get  over  his  surprise  at  this  strange  phenomenon, 
nor  explain  it,  and  often  brought  some  scientific  friend 
from  Paris  to  test  it,  who  was  equally  nonplussed. 

When  cross-examined,  Barty  would  merely  say  : 

*'Quelquefois  je  sais — quelquefois  jc  ne  sais  pas — mais 
quand  je  sais,  je  sais,  et  il  n'y  a  pas  a  s'y  tromper !" 

Indeed,  on  one  occasion  that  I  remember  well,  a  very 
strange  thing  happened ;  he  not  only  pointed  out  the  north 
with  absolute  accuracy,  as  he  stood  carefully  blindfolded 
in  the  gymnastic  ground,  after  having  been  turned  and 
twisted  again  and  again  —  but,  still  blindfolded,  he 
vaulted  the  wire  fence  and  ran  round  to  the  refectory 
door  which  served  as  the  home  at  rounders,  all  of  us  fol- 
lowing ;  and  there  he  danced  a  surprising  dance  of  his 
own  invention,  that  he  called  "  La  Paladine,"  the  most 
humorously  graceful  and  grotesque  exhibition  I  ever  saw ; 
and  then,  taking  a  ball  out  of  his  pocket,  he  shouted  : 
"A  I'amandier!"  and  threw  the  ball.  Straight  and  swift 
it  flew,  and  hit  the  almond-tree,  which  was  quite  twenty 
yards  off  ;  and  after  this  he  ran  round  the  yard  from 
base  to  base,  as  at  **  la  ballo  au  camp,"  till  he  reached 
the  camp  again. 

"If  ever  he  goes  blindj"  said  the  wondering  M.  Mero- 
v6e,  **  he'll  never  need  a  dog  to  lead  him  about." 

"  He  must  have  some  special  friend  above !"  said 
Madame  Germain  (Merovee's  sister,  who  was  looking  on). 

Prophetic  toorch!  I  have  never  forgOi^ten  them,  nor 
the  tear  that  glistened  in  each  of  her  kind  eyes  as  she 
spoke.  She  was  a  deeply  religious  and  very  emotional 
person,  and  loved  Barty  almost  as  if  he  were  a  child  of 
her  own. 

Such  women  have  strange  intuitions. 

Barty  was  often  asked  to  repeat  this  astonishing  per- 
formance  before  sceptical  people — parents  of  boys,  visit- 


39 


ors,  etc. — who  had  been  told  of  it,  and  who  believed  he 
could  not  have  been  properly  blindfolded  ;  but  he  could 
never  be  induced  to  do  so. 

There  was  no  mistake  about  the  blindfoIdinE^ — I  helped 
in  it  myself  ;  and  he  afterwards  told  me  the  whole  thing 
was  *'  aussi  simple  que  bonjour  "  if  once  he  felt  the  north 
— for  then,  with  his  back  to  the  refectory  door,  he  knew 
exactly  the  position  and  distance  of  every  tree  from 
where  he  was. 

"It's  all  nonsense  about  my  going  blind  and  being  able 
to  do  without  a  dog" — he  added  ;  "I  should  be  Just  as 
helpless  as  any  other  blind  man,  unless  I  was  in  a  place  I 
knew  as  well  as  my  own  pocket — like  this  play-ground  ! 
Besides,  /  sha'n't  go  blind ;  nothing  wia  ever  happen  to 
my  eyes — they're  the  strongest  and  best  in  the  whole 
school !" 

He  said  this  exultingly,  dilating  his  nostrils  and  chest; 
and  looked  proudly  up  and  around,  like  Ajax  defying  the 
lightning. 

**  But  what  do  you  feel  when  you  feel  the  north,  Barty 
— a  kind  of  tingling  ?"  I  asked. 

"  Oh — I  feel  where  it  is — as  if  I'd  got  a  mariner's  com- 
pass trembling  inside  my  stomach — and  as  if  I  wasn't 
afraid  of  anybody  or  anything  in  the  world — as  if  1  could 
go  and  have  my  head  chopped  oif  and  not  care  a  ti 


O" 


Ah,  well — I  can't  make  it  out — 1  give  it  up,"  1  ex- 


claimed. 

''So  do  I,"  exclaims  Barty. 

'*But  tell  me,  Barty,"  1  whispered,  "//rtye  you — have 
you  realhj  got  a — a — .sj)ecial friend  above?" 

"  Ask  no  questions  and  you'll  get  no  lies,"  said  Barty, 
and  winked  at  me  one  eye  after  the  other  —  and  went 
about  his  business.     And  I  about  mine. 

Tiius  it  is  hardly  to  be  wondered  at  tiuit  the  spirit  of 


40 


this  extraordinary  boy  seemed  to  pervade  the  Pension  F. 
Brossard,  almost  from  tlie  day  he  came  to  the  day  he  left 
it — a  slender  stripling  over  six  feet  high,  beautiful  as 
Apollo  but,  alas  !  without  his  degree,  and  not  an  incipi- 
ent hair  on  his  lip  or  chin  ! 

Of  course  the  boy  had  his  faults.  He  had  a  tremen- 
dous appetite,  and  was  rather  greedy — so  was  I,  for  that 
matter — and  we  were  good  customers  to  la  mere  Jaurion ; 
especially  he,  for  he  always  had  lots  of  pocket-money, 
and  was  fond  of  standing  treat  all  round.  Yet,  strange 
to  say,  he  had  such  a  loathing  of  meat  that  soon  by 
special  favoritism  a  separate  dish  of  eggs  and  milk  and 
succulent  vegetables  was  cooked  expressly  for  him — a 
savory  mess  that  made  all  our  mouths  water  merely  to  see 
and  smell  it,  and  filled  us  with  envy,  it  was  so  good. 
Aglae  the  cook  took  care  of  that ! 

"  C'etait  pour  Monsieur  Josselin  \" 

And  of  this  he  would  eat  as  much  as  three  ordinary 
boys  could  eat  of  anything  in  the  world. 

Then  he  was  quick-tempered  and  impulsive,  and  in 
frequent  fights — in  which  he  generally  came  o£F  second 
best ;  for  he  was  fond  of  fighting  with  bigger  boys  than 
himself.  Victor  or  vanquished,  he  never  bore  malice — 
nor  woke  it  in  others,  which  is  worse.  But  he  would 
slap  a  face  almost  as  soon  as  look  at  it,  on  rather  slight 
provocation,  I'm  afraid — especially  if  it  wcfc  an  inch  or 
two  higher  up  than  his  own.  And  he  was  fond  of  show- 
ing off,  and  always  wanted  to  throw  farther  and  jump 
higher  and  run  faster  than  any  one  else.  Not,  indeed, 
that  he  ever  wished  to  mentally  excel,  or  particularly  ad- 
mired those  who  did  I 

Also,  he  was  apt  to  judge  folk  too  much  by  their  mere 
outward  appearance  and  manner,  and  not  very  fond  of 
dull,  ugly,  commouplaco  people — the  very  people,  unfor- 


41 


innately,  who  were  fondest  ol  him  ;  he  really  detested 
them,  almost  as  much  as  they  detest  each  otlier,  in  spite 
of  many  sterling  qualities  of  the  heart  and  head  tliey 
sometimes  possess.  And  yet  he  was  their  victim  through 
life — for  he  was  very  soft,  and  never  had  the  heart  to 
snub  the  deadliest  bores  he  ever  writhed  under,  even  un- 
deserving ones  !     Like  ,  or  ,  or  the  Bishop  of 

,  or  Lord  Justice  ,  or  General ,  or  Admiral 

,  or  the  Duke  of ,  etc.,  etc. 

And  he  very  unjustly  disliked  people  of  the  bourgeois 
type — the  respectable  middle  class,  quorum  pars  magna 
full  Especially  if  we  were  very  well  off  and  success- 
ful, and  thought  ourselves  of  some  consequence  (as  we 
now  very  often  are,  I  beg  to  say),  and  showed  it  (as,  I'm 
afraid,  we  sometimes  do).  He  preferred  the  commonest 
artisan  to  M.  Jourdain,  the  bourgeois  gentilhomme,  who 
was  a  very  decent  fellow,  after  all,  and  at  least  clean  in 
his  habits,  and  didn't  use  bad  language  or  beat  his  wife  ! 

Poor  dear  Barty  !«what  would  have  become  of  all  those 
priceless  copyrights  and  royalties  and  what  not  if  his 
old  school-fellow  hadn't  been  a  man  of  business  ?  and 
where  would  Barty  himself  have  been  without  his  wife, 
who  came  from  that  very  class  ? 

And  his  admiration  for  an  extremely  good  -  looking 
person,  even  of  his  own  sex,  even  a  scavenger  or  a  dust- 
man, was  almost  snobbish.  It  was  like  a  well-bred, 
well-educated  Englishman's  frank  fondness  for  a  noble 
lord. 

And  next  to  physical  beauty  he  admired  great  physical 
strength  ;  and  I  sometimes  think  that  it  is  to  my  posses- 
sion of  this  single  gift  I  owe  some  of  the  warm  friendship 
1  feel  sure  he  always  bore  me  ;  for  thougli  he  was  a 
strong  man,  and  topped  me  by  an  inch  or  two,  I  was 
stronger  still — as  a  cart-horse  is  stronger  than  a  racer. 


42 


For  his  own  personal  appearance,  of  which  he  always 
took  the  greatest  care,  he  had  a  naive  admiration  that 
he  did  not  disguise.  His  candor  in  this  respect  was 
comical ;  yet,  strange  to  say,  he  was  really  without 
vanity. 

When  he  was  in  the  Guards  he  would  tell  you  quite 
franivly  he  was  "  the  handsomest  chap  in  all  the  House- 
hokl  Brigade,  bar  three  " — just  as  he  would  tell  you  he 
was  twenty  last  birthday.  And  the  fun  of  it  was  that 
the  three  exceptions  he  was  good  enough  to  maii;e,  splen- 
did fellows  as  they  were,  seemed  as  satyrs  to  Hyperion 
when  compared  with  Barty  Josselin.  One  (F.  Pepys) 
was  tliree  or  four  inches  taller,  it  is  true,  being  six  foot 
seven  or  eight — a  giant.  The  two  others  had  immense 
whiskers,  which  Barty  openly  envied,  but  could  not  em- 
ulate— and  the  mustache  Avith  which  he  would  have  been 
quite  decently  endowed  in  time  was  not  permitted  in  an 
infantry  regiment. 

To  return  to  the  Pension  Brossard,  and  Barty  the 
school-boy : 

He  adored  Monsieur  Merovee  because  he  was  big  and 
strong  and  handsome — not  because  he  was  one  of  the 
best  fellows  that  ever  lived.  He  disliked  Monsieur 
Durosier,  whom  we  were  all  so  fond  of,  because  he  had 
a  slight  squint  and  a  receding  chin. 

As  for  the  Anglophobe,  Monsieur  Dumollard,  Avho 
made  no  secret  of  his  hatred  and  contempt  for  perfidi- 
ous Albion  .  .  . 

*'Dis  done,  Josselin!"  says  Maurice,  in  English  or 
French,  as  the  case  might  be,  "  why  don't  you  like  Mon- 
sieur Dumollard  ?  Eh  ?  He  always  favors  you  more 
than  any  other  chap  in  the  school.  I  suppose  you  dis- 
like him  because  he  hates  the  English  so,  and  always 
runs  them  down  before  you  and  me — and  says  they're  all 


48 


the 


traitors  and  sneaks  and  hypocrites  and  bullies  and  cow- 
ards and  liars  and  snobs;  and  we  can't  answer  him,  be- 
cause he's  the  mathematical  master  V 

"Ma  foi,  non  I"  says  Josselin — "(;'est  pas  pour  9a  !" 

"  Pourquoi,  alors  ?"  says  Maurice  (that's  me). 

"C'est  parce  qu'il  a  le  pied  bourgeois  et  la  jambe 
canaille  I''  says  Barty.  (It's  because  he's  got  common 
legs  and  vulgar  feet.) 

And  that's  about  the  lowest  and  meanest  thing  I  ever 
heard  him  say  in  his  life. 

Also,  he  was  not  always  very  sympathetic,  as  a  boy, 
when  one  was  sick  or  sorry  or  out  of  sorts,  for  he  had 
never  been  ill  in  his  life,  never  known  an  ache  or  a  pain 
— except  once  the  mumpvS,  which  he  seemed  to  thorough- 
ly enjoy — and  couldn't  realize  suffering  of  any  kind,  ex- 
cept such  suffering  as  most  school-boys  all  over  the 
world  are  often  fond  of  inflicting  on  dumb  animals  :  this 
drove  him  frantic,  and  led  to  many  a  licking  by  bigger 
boys.     I  remember  several  such  scenes— one  especially. 

One  frosty  morning  in  January,  '48,  just  after  break- 
fast, Jolivet  trois  (tertius)  put  a  sparrow  into  his  squirrel's 
cage,  and  the  squirrel  caught  it  in  its  claws,  and  cracked 
its  skull  like  a  nut  aiul  sucked  its  brain,  while  the  poor 
bird  still  made  a  desperate  struggle  for  life,  and  there 
was  much  laughter. 

There  was  also,  in  consequence,  a  quick  fight  between 
Jolivet  and  Josselin  ;  in  which  Barty  got  the  worst,  as 
usual — his  foe  was  two  years  older,  and  ([uite  an  inch 
taller. 

Afterwards,  as  the  licked  oi\e  sat  on  the  edge  of  a  small 
stone  tank  full  of  water  and  dabl)ed  his  swollen  eye  with 
a  wet  pocket-handkerchief,  M.  Dmnoilard,  the  mathe- 
matical master,  made  cheap  fiui  of  Britannic  sentimen- 
tality about  animals,  and  told  us  how  the  English  no- 


44 


blesse  were  privileged  to  beat  their  wives  with  sticks  no 
thicker  than  their  ankles,  and  sell  them  "an  rabais"  in 
the  horse-market  of  Smissfeld ;  and  that  they  paid  men 
to  box  each  other  to  death  on  the  stage  of  Drury  Lane, 
and  all  that — deplorable  things  that  we  all  know  and  are 
sorry  for  and  ashamed,  but  cannot  put  a  stop  to. 

The  boys  laughed,  of  course ;  they  always  did  when 
Dumollard  tried  to  be  funny,  "and  many  a  joke  had 
he/'  although  his  wit  never  degenerated  into  mere 
humor. 

But  they  were  so  fond  of  Barty  that  they  forgave  him 
his  insular  affectation  ;  some  even  helped  him  to  dab  his 
sore  eye ;  among  them  Jolivet  trois  himself,  who  was  a 
very  good-natured  chap,  and  very  good-looking  into  the 
bargain  ;  anc^  had  received  from  Barty  a  sore  eye  too 
— gallic^,  "  U--  ^^ochon'" — scholastic^,  "  \xu  obH  an  beurre 
noir !" 

By-the-way,  /  fought  with  Jolivet  once — about  ^soi)'s 
fables  !  He  said  that  ^sop  was  a  lame  puct  of  Laceda?- 
mon — I,  that  ^sop  was  a  little  hunchback  Armenian 
Jew  ;  and  I  stuck  to  it.  It  was  a  Sunday  afternoon,  on 
the  terrace  by  the  lingerie. 

He  kicked  as  hard  as  he  could,  so  I  had  to  kick  too. 
Mile.  Marceline  ran  out  with  Constau^^e  and  Felicite  and 
tried  to  separate  us,  and  got  kicked  by  both  (uninten- 
tionally, of  course).  Then  up  came  P6re  Jaurion  and 
kicked  me!  And  they  all  took  Jolivet's  part,  and  said  I 
was  in  the  wrong,  because  I  was  English  !  What  did 
tJiej/  know  about  ^Esop  !  So  we  made  it  up,  and  went 
in  Jaurion's  loge  and  stood  each  other  a  blomboudingue 
on  tick — and  called  Jaurion  bad  names. 

"  Comme  c'est  bete,  de  s'battre,  hein  ?''  said  Jolivet, 
and  I  agreed  with  him.  I  don't  know  which  of  us  really 
got  the  worst  of  it,  for  we  hadn't  disfigured  e^h  other 


45 


in  the  least— and  that's  the  best  of  kicking.  Anyhow 
he  was  two  years  okler  than  I,  and  tliree  or  four  inches 
taller;  so  I'm  glad,  ol  the  whole,  that  that  small  battle 
was  interrupted. 

It  is  really  not  for  brag  that  I  have  lugged  in  this 
story— at  least,  I  hope  not.     One  never  quite  knows. 

To  go  back  to  Barty  :  he  was  the  most  generous  boy  in 
the  school.  If  I  may  parajjlirase  an  old  saying,  he  really 
didn't  seem  to  know  the  difference  betwixt-  tuum  et 
meum.  Everything  he  had,  books,  clothes,  pocket- 
money — even  agate  marbles,  those  priceless  possessions 
to  a  French  school-boy — seemed  to  be  also  everybody 
else's  who  chose.  I  came  across  a  very  characteristic 
letter  of  his  the  other  day,  written  from  the  Pension 
Brossard  to  his  favorite  aunt,  Lady  C'aroline  (Irey  (one 
of  the  Ilohans),  who  adored  him.     It  begins  : 

"  My  Dear  Aunt  Caroline, — Thank  you  so  much 
for  the  magnifying-glass,  which  is  not  only  magnifying, 
but  magnifique.  Don't  trouble  to  send  any  more  gin- 
gerbread-nuts, as  the  boys  are  getting  rather  tired  of 
them,  especially  Laferte  and  Bussy-Ra.>htin.  I  think 
we  should  all  like  some  Scotch  marmalade,"  etc.,  etc. 


And  though  fond  of  romancing  a  little  now  and  then, 
and  embellishing  a  good  story,  he  was  absolutely  truth- 
ful in  important  matters,  and  to  be  relied  upon  im- 
plicitly. 

He  seemed  also  to  be  quite  withoiit  the  sense  of  phys- 
ical fear — a  kind  of  callousness. 

Such,  roughly,  was  the  boy  who  lived  to  write  the 
3fotes  in  a  Moonbeam  and  La  qnatribne  Dimension  be- 
fore he  was  thirty  ;  and  such,  roughly,  he  remained 
through  life,  except  for  one  thing :  he  grew  to  be  the 


46 


very  soul  of  passionate  and  compassionate  sympathy,  as 
who  doesn't  feel  who  has  ever  read  a  page  of  liis  work,  or 
even  had  speech  with  him  for  half  an  hour  ? 

Whatever  weaknesses  he  yielded  to  when  he  grew  to 
man's  estate  are  such  as  the  world  only  too  readily  con- 
dones in  many  a  famous  man  less  tempted  than  Josselin 
was  inevitably  })ound  to  be  through  life.  Men  of  the 
Josselin  type  (there  are  not  many  —  he  stands  ])retty 
much  alone)  can  scarcely  be  expected  to  joi-viiey  from 
adolescence  to  middle  age  with  that  impeccable  decorum 
which  I — and  no  doubt  many  of  my  masculine  readers — 
have  found  it  so  easy  to  achieve,  and  find  it  now  so  pleas- 
ant to  remember  and  get  credit  for.  Let  us  think  of 
The  Footprints  of  Aurora,  or  Eloiles  mortes,  or  Dejanire 
et  Datila,  or  even  Lcs  Trepassees  do  Frau<;oiH  Villon! 

Then  let  us  look  at  Rajon's  etching  of  Watts's  portrait 
of  him  (the  original  is  my  own  to  loo':  at  Avhenever  I  like, 
and  that  is  pretty  often).  And  then  let  us  not  throw 
too  many  big  stones,  or  too  hard,  at  Barty  Josselin. 

Well,  the  summer  term  of  1847  wore  smoothly  to  its 
close — a  happy ''trimestre"  during  which  the  Institu- 
tion F.  Bro«sard  reached  the  high-water  mark  of  its  pros 
perity. 

There  were  sixty  boys  to  l)e  taught,  and  six  house-mas- 
ters to  teach  them,  besides  a  few  highly  paid  outsiders  for 
special  classes — such  as  the  lively  AF.  Durosicr  for  French 
literature,  and  M.  le  Professeur  Martineau  for  tiie  higher 
nuithematics,  and  so  forth ;  and  craiumers  and  coachers 
for  St.-Cyr,  the  Polytechnic  School,  the  l^cole  des  Pouts 
et  Chaussees. 

Also  fencing  -  masters,  gymnastic  masters,  a  Dutch 
master  who  taught  us  Gernuin  and  Italian  —  an  Irish 
master  with  a  lovely  brogue  who  taught  us  English, 
Shall  1  ever  forget  the  blessed  day  when  ten  or  twelve 


47 


of  us  were  presented  with  an  Ivanlioe  apiece  as  a  class- 
book,  or  how  Barty  and  I  and  Bonneville  (who  knew 
English)  devoured  the  immortal  story  in  less  than  a 
week— to  the  disgust  of  Rapaud,  wiio  refused  to  believe 
that  we  could  possibly  know  such  a  beastly  tongue  as 
English  well  enough  to  read  an  English  book  for  mere 
pleasure  — on  our  desks  in  play-time,  or  on  our  laps  in 
school,  en  cachctte!    ''Quelle  sacree  pose  !" 

He  soon  mislaid  his  own  copy,  did  Rapaud  ;  just  as 
he   mislaid   my  Monte  Crista  and   Jolivet's   illustrated 
Wandering  Jew — and  it  was  always  : 

''Dis  done,  Maurice  I— prote-moi  ton  Ivanhoer  (witli 
an  accent  on  the  e),  whenever  lie  had  to  construe  his 
twenty  lines  of  Valtere  Scott— and  wbat  a  hash  he  nuule 

of  them ! 

Sometimes  M.  Brossard  himself  would  come,  smoking 
his  big  meerschaum,  and  help  the  English  class  during 
preparation,  and  put  us  up  to  a  thing  or  two  worth 
knowing. 

"  Rapaud,  comment  dit-on  ' pouvoir'  en  anglais  ?" 

''Sais  pas,  m'sieur !" 

''  Comment,  petit  cretin,  tu  ne  sais  pas  !" 

And  Rapaud  would  receive  a  piurk  tordue — a  ''twist- 
ed pinch"— on  the  back  of  bis  arm  to  quicken  his 
memory. 

"  Oh,  li\,  h\!"  he  would  howl—"  je  n'  sais  pas  !" 

"Et  toi,  Maurice  ?" 

"(;^a  se  dit  '/o  be  cd/te,'  m'sieur  I"  I  would  say. 

"Mais  non,  mon  ami— tu  oublies  ta  langue  luitale — 
9a  so  dit, '/(>  can'!  Maintenant,  comment  dirais-tu  en 
anglais,  'je  voudrais  ponroir' ?'" 

"  Je  dirais,  *  I  would  like  to  Ite  aide.''' 

"  Comment,  encore  !  petit  cancre  !  allons — tu  es  An- 
glais—tu  sais  Vien  quo  tu  diruis,  *  /  vonld  vill  to  can  '/" 


48 


Then  M.  Brossard  turns  to  Barty :  *^A  ton  tour, 
josstlin  !" 

**Moi,  m'sieur  ?"  says  Barty. 

**  Qui,  toi ! — comment  dirais-tu,  \'}p  pmirraUvnidnir^? 

"  Je  dirais  'I  vould  can  to  vill,'"  says  Barty,  quite  un- 
abashed. 

'^  A  hi  bonne  hcure  !  an  moins  tii  sais  ta  hmgue,  toi  !" 
says  Pere  Brossard,  and  pats  liim  on  the  cheek  ;  wliile 
Barty  winks  at  me,  the  wink  of  successful  time-serving 
hypocrisy,  and  ]5onneville  writhes  with  suppressed  de- 
liglit. 

What  lives  most  in  my  remembrance  of  tliat  summer 
is  the  h)vely  weather  we  had,  and  the  joy  of  the  Passy 
swimming -batli  every  Tliursday  and  Sunday  from  two 
till  five  or  six  ;  it  comes  l)ack  to  me  even  now  in  heavenly 
dreams  by  nigiit.  I  swim  with  giant  side-strokes  all 
round  the  He  des  (-ygnes  between  Passy  and  (Irenelle, 
where  the  ^cole  de  Natation  was  moored  for  the  summer 
months. 

Round  and  round  the  isle  I  go,  up  stream  and  down, 
and  dive  and  float  and  wallow  with  bliss  there  is  no 
telling — till  the  waters  all  dry  up  and  disappear,  and  I 
am  left  wading  in  weeds  and  mud  and  drift  and  drought 
and  desolation,  and  wake  up  shivering — ami  such  is  life. 

As  for  Barty,  he  was  all  but  amphibious,  and  reminded 
mo  of  the  seal  at  the  Jardin  des  Plantes.  lie  really 
seemed  to  spend  most  of  the  af  ♦;ornoon  under  water,  com- 
ing up  to  breathe  now  and  then  Ji  unexpected  moments, 
with  a  stone  in  his  nu)uth  that  he  had  picked  up  from  the 
slimy  bottom  ten  or  twelve  feet  below — or  a  weed — or  -i 
dead  mussel. 


part  Second 


"Laissons  les  regrets  et  les  pleurs 
A  la  vieillesse  ; 
Jeunes,  il  faut  ciuiillir  les  fleiira 
De  la  jeuncsse  !"— Baip. 

Sometimes  we  sjojnt  the  Sunday  morning  in  Paris, 
Barty  and  I — in  picture-galleries  and  museums  and  wax- 
figure  shows,  churches  and  cemeteries,  and  the  Hotel 
Cluny  and  the  Baths  of  Julian  the  Apostate — or  the 
Jardin  des  Plantes,  or  the  Morgue,  or  the  knackers' 
yards  at  Montfaucon — or  lovely  slums.  Then  a  swim  at 
the  Bains  Deligny.  Then  lunch  jit  some  restaurant  on  the 
Quai  Voltaire,  or  in  the  Quartier  Latin.  Then  to  some 
caf6  on  the  Boulevards,  drinking  our  demi-tasse  and  our 
chasse-cafe,  and  smoking  our  cigarettes  like  men,  and 
picking  our  teeth  like  gentlemen  of  France. 

Once  after  lunch  at  Vachette's  with  Ber(|iiin  (who  was 
s(!venteen)  and  lUmneville  (tlie  manjuis  wiio  had  got  an 
English  mother),  we  were  sitting  outside  the  Cafe  des 
Variotes,  hi  the  midst  of  a  crowd  of  consommateurs,  aiul 
tasting  to  the  full  the  joy  of  being  alive,  when  a  poor 
woman  came  u])  with  a  guitar,  and  tried  to  sing  "  Le 
petit  nunisse  noir,"'  a  song  Barty  knew  (juite  well — but 
she  couldn't  sing  a  bit,  and  nobody  listened. 

'*  Allons,  Josselin.  chante-nous  ya  !"  said  lierquin. 

And  Bonneville  jumped  up,  and  took  the  woinan's 
guitar  from  her,  and  forced  it  into  Josselin's  hands,  while 
the  crowd  became  much  interested  and  began  to  applaud. 


50 


Thus  encouraged,  Barty,  who  never  in  all  his  life 
knew  what  it  is  to  be  shy,  stood  up  and  piped  away  like 
a  bird ;  and  when  he  had  finished  the  story  of  the  little 
black  cabin-boy  who  sings  in  the  maintop  halliards,  the 
applause  was  so  tremendous  that  he  had  to  stand  up  on 
a  chair  and  sing  another,  and  yet  another. 

**Ecoute-moi  bien,  ma  Fleurette  !"  and  '^  Amis,  la 
matinee  est  belle  !"  (from  La  Muette  de  Porticl),  while  the 
pavement  outside  the  Varietes  was  rendered  quite  im- 
passabk^  by  the  crowd  that  had  gathered  round  to  look 
and  listen- -and  who  all  joined  in  the  chorus : 

"Conduis  ta  barque  avec  prudeuce, 

PCclieui- !  parlc  has  ! 
Jetle  tes  tilets  en  silence 

PCelicur  I  parle  bas  ! 
El  le  roi  des  mors  ne  nous  echappfira  pas  !"  {his). 

and  the  applause  was  deafening. 

Meanwhile  Bonneville  and  Berquin  went  round  with 
the  hat  and  gathered  quite  a  considerable  sum,  in  which 
there  seemed  to  be  almost  as  much  silver  as  copper — and 
actually  two  five-franc  pieces  ami  an  Bnfjlifih  half-sov- 
v,rei(j}i!  The  poor  wonuin  wept  with  gratitude  at  com- 
ing into  such  a  fortune,  and  insisted  on  kissing  Barty's 
hand.  Indeed  it  was  a  quite  wonderful  ovation,  con- 
sidering how  unmistakal)ly  British  was  Barty's  appear- 
ance, and  how  unpopubir  we  were  in  France  just  then  ! 

lie  had  his  new  shiny  black  silk  cbimney-pot  hat  on, 
and  his  Eton  jacket,  with  the  wide  shirt  collar.  Ber- 
(luin.  in  a  tightly  litting  double-breasted  brown  cloth 
swallow-tailed  coat  with  brass  buttons,  yellow  nankin 
bell-mouthed  trousers  strapped  over  varnished  boots,: 
butter-colored  gloves,  a  blue  satin  stock,  and  a  very  tall 
hairy  hat  with  a  wide  curly  brim,  looked  such  an  out- 


I 


il 


u 

11 


'AM18,  I-A   MATINKK   EST  HKLI.K 


,'  " 


I 


52 


and-out  young  gentleman  of  France  that  we  were  all 
proud  of  being  seen  in  his  company — especially  young 
de  Bonneville,  who  was  still  in  mourning  for  his  father 
and  wore  a  crape  band  round  his  arm,  and  a  common 
cloth  cap  with  a  leather  peak,  and  thicl'  blucher  boots; 
though  he  was  quite  sixteen,  and  already  had  a  little 
black  mustache  like  an  eyebrow,  and  inhaled  the  smoke 
of  his  cigarette  without  coug!iing  and  quite  naturally, 
and  ordered  the  Avaiters  about  just  as  if  he  already 
wore  the  uniform  of  the  ificole  St. -CJvr,  for  which  he 
destined  himself  (and  Avas  not  disappointed,  lie  should 
be  a  marshal  of  France  by  now — porha])s  he  is). 

Then  we  went  to  the  Cafe  jMulhouse  on  the  Boulevard 
des  Italiens  (on  the  ''  Boul.  ilvs  It.,"  as  we  called  it,  to  be 
in  the  fashion) — that  we  might  gaze  at  Senor  Joaquin 
Eliezegui,  the  Spanish  giant,  who  was  eight  feet  high 
and  a  trifle  over  (or  undjr — I  forget  which)  :  he  told 
us  himself.  Barty  had  a  passion  for  gazing  at  very  tall 
men;  like  Frederic  the  Ureat  (or  was  it  his  Majesty's 
royal  father  ?). 

Then  we  went  to  the  Boulevard  Bonne -Nouvelle, 
where,  in  a  painted  wooden  shed,  a  most  beautiful  Cir- 
cassian slave,  miraculously  rescued  from  some  abomina- 
ble seraglio  in  Constantinople,  sold  pen'orths  of  **galette 
du  gymnase."'  On  her  raven  hair  she  wore  a  silk  turban 
all  over  sequins,  silver  and  gold,  with  a  yashmak  that 
fell  down  behind,  leaving  her  adorable  face  exposed  : 
she  had  an  amber  vest  of  silk,  embroidered  with  pearls 
as  big  as  walnuts,  and  Turkish  pantalettes — what  her 
slippers  were  we  couldn't  see,  but  they  must  have  been 
lovely,  like  all  the  rest  of  her.  Barty  had  a  passion  for 
gazing  at  very  beautiful  female  faces — like  his  father  be- 
fore him. 

There  was  a  regular  queue  of  postulants  to  see  this 


53 


heavenly  Eastern  houri  and  buy  her  confection,  which  is. 
very  like  Scotch  butter-cake,  but  not  so  digestible ;  and 
even  more  filling  at  the  price.  And  three  of  us  sat  on  a 
bench,  while  three  times  running  Barty  took  his  place  in 
that  procession — soldiers,  sailors,  workmen,  chitfonniers, 
people  of  all  sorts,  women  as  many  as  men— all  of  them 
hungry  for  galettc,  but  hungrier  still  for  a  good  hu- 
manizing stare  at  a  beautiful  female  face;  and  he  nuide 
the  slow  and  to'^som*^  Journey  to  the  little  wooden  booth 
three  times — and  brought  us  each  a  pen'orth  on  each 
return  journey  ;  and  the  third  time,  Katidjah  (sucli  was 
her  sweet  Oriental  name)  lea  led  forward  over  her  coun- 
ter and  kissed  Mm  on  both  cheeks,  and  whispered  in  his 
ear  (in  English  -and  with  the  accent  of  Stratford-atte- 
Bowe): 

*'  You  little  duck!  your  name  is  Brown,  I  know!" 

And  he  came  away,  his  face  pale  with  conflicting  emo- 
tions, and  told  us  ! 

How  excited  we  were  !  Bonneville  (who  spoke  Eng- 
lish quite  well)  went  for  a  pen'orth  on  his  own  account, 
and  said  :  "  My  name's  Brown  too.  Miss  Katidjah  \" 
But  he  didn't  get  a  kiss. 

(She  soon  after  married  a  Mr. ,  of ,  the  well- 
known  of shire,  in land.     She  may  be  alive 

now.) 

Then  to  the  Palais  Royal,  to  dine  at  the  '"Diner  Eu- 
ropeen"  with  M.  Beniuin  pere,  a  famous  engineer;  and 
finally  to  stalls  at  the  'M^'ranyais "  to  see  the  two  first 
acts  of  Le  Oid ;  and  this  was  rather  an  anticlimax — for 
we  had  too  \\n\v\\  "(Ud"at  the  Institution  F.  Brossard 
already  I 

And  then,  at  last,  to  the  omnibus  station  in  the  Hue  do 
Rivoli,  whence  the  "  Accelerees  "  (en  (U)rrespondence  avec 
les  Coustantiues)  started  for  J 'assy  every  ten  minutes ; 


54 


and  thus,  up  the  gas-lighted  Champs-:^lysees,  and  by  the 
Arc  de  Triomphe,  to  the  Kond-point  de  1 'Avenue  de  St.- 
Cloud  ;  tired  out,  but  happy— happy— happy  cotnme  on 
ne  Vest  phis  ! 

Before  the  school  broke  up  for  the  holidays  there  were 
very  severe  examinations — but  no  "  distribution  de  prix"; 
we  were  above  that  kind  of  thing  at  Brossard's,  just  as  we 
were  above  wearing  a  uniform  or  taking  in  day  boarders. 

Barty  didn't  come  off  very  well  in  this  competition ; 
but  he  came  off  anyhow  much  better  than  I,  who  had 
failed  to  be  "  diligent  and  attentive  "—too  much  Monte 
Cristo,  I'm  afraid. 

At  all  events  Bar  by  got  five  marks  for  English  History, 
because  he  remembered  a  good  deal  about  Richard  Cceur 
de  Lion,  and  John,  and  Friar  Tuck,  and  Robin  Ilood, 
and  especially  one  Cedric  the  Saxon,  a  historical  person- 
age of  whom  the  examiner  (a  decorated  gentleman  from 
the  College  de  France)  had  never  even  heard  ! 

And  then  (to  the  tune  of  *' Au  clair  de  la  lune"): 

"  Vivent  Ics  vacanccs — 
Deniqiie  tandhn; 
Et  les  penitences — 
Ilabcbunt  finem! 
Les  pions  intri»ital)lcs, 

Vnltu  Barhard, 
S'en  iront  aux  diables, 
(j audio  nostro." 

N.B.— Tlie  accent  is  always  on  the  last  syllable  in 
French  Latin — and  p ion  means  an  usher. 

Barty  went  to  Yorkshire  with  the  Kohans,  and  T  spent 
most  of  my  holidays  with  my  mother  and  sister  (and  the 

beautiful  Miss )  at  Mademoiselle  Jalal)ert's,  next  door 

coming  back  to  school  for  most  of  my  meals,  and  at 


"TOO  MUCH   'MONTK  CRISTO,     IM   AFUAII) 


56 


night  to  sleep,  with  a  whole  dormitory  to  myself,  and  no 
dreadful  bell  at  five  in  the  morning ;  and  so  much  time 
to  spare  that  I  never  found  any  leisure  for  my  holiday 
taak,  that  skeleton  at  the  feast ;  no  more  did  Jules,  the 
sergeant's  son ;  no  more  did  Caillard,  who  spent  his  vaca- 
tion at  Brossard's  because  his  parents  lived  in  Russia, 
and  his  *'corrtspondant  "  in  Paris  was  ill. 

The  only  master  who  remained  behind  was  Bonzig, 
who  passed  his  time  painting  ships  and  sailors,  in  oil- 
colors  ;  it  was  a  passion  with  him  :  corvettes,  brigan- 
tines,  British  whalers,  fishing -smacks,  revenue -cutters, 
feluccas,  caiques,  even  Chinese  junks — all  was  fish  that 
came  to  his  net.  He  got  them  all  from  La  France 
Maritime,  an  illustrated  periodical  much  in  vogue  at 
Brossard's ;  and  also  his  storms  and  his  calms,  his  rocks 
and  piers  and  light -houses — for  he  had  never  seen 
the  sea  he  was  so  fond  of.  He  took  us  every  morning 
to  the  Passy  swimming-baths,  and  in  the  afternoon  for 
long  walks  in  Paris,  and  all  about  and  around,  and  es- 
pecially to  the  Musee  de  Marine  at  the  Louvre,  that  we 
might  gaze  with  him  at  the  beautiful  models  of  three- 
deckers. 

He  evidently  pitied  our  forlorn  condition,  and  told  us 
delightful  stories  about  seafaring  life,  like  Mr.  Clark 
Russell's  ;  and  how  he,  some  day,  hoped  to  see  the  ocean 
for  himself  before  he  died — and  with  his  own  eyes. 

I  really  don't  know  how  Jules  and  Caillard  would  have 
got  through  the  hideous  ennui  of  that  idle  September 
without  him.     Even  I,  witli  my  mother  and  sister  and 

the  beautiful  Miss within  such  easy  reach,  found 

time  hang  heavily  at  times.  One  can't  be  always  reading, 
even  Alexandre  Dunuis ;  nor  always  loafing  about,  even 
in  Paris,  by  one's  self  (Jules  and  ('aillard  were  not  al- 
lowed outside  the  gates  without  Bonzig) ;  and  beautiful 


57 


il 


English  girls  of  eighteen,  like  Miss s,  don't  always 

want  a  small  boy  dangling  after  them,  and  show  it  some- 
times ;  which  I  thouglit  very  hard. 

It  was  almost  a  relief  when  school  began  again  in  Oc- 
tober, and  the  boys  came  back  with  their  wonderful 
stories  of  the  good  time  tiiey  had  all  had  (especially  some 
of  the  big  boys,  who  were  ''en  rhetorique  et  en  philoso- 
phie") — and  all  the  game  that  had  fallen  to  their  guns — 
wild-bours,  roebucks,  cerfs-dix-cors,  and  what  not  ;  of 
perilous  swims  in  stormy  seas — tremendous  adventures 
in  fishing-smacks  on  mooidight  nights  (it  seemed  that  the 
moon  had  been  at  the  full  all  through  those  wonderful 
six  weeks);  rides  ventre  d  terre  on  mettlesome  Arab 
steeds  through  gloomy  wolf-haunted  forests  with  charm- 
ing female  cousins  ;  flirtations  and  "good  fortunes'^  with 
beautifnl  but  not  happily  married  women  in  old  mediaeval 
castle  keeps.  Toujours  au  clair  de  la  lune  !  They  didn't 
believe  each  other  in  the  least,  these  gay  young  romancers 
— nor  expect  to  be  believed  themselves  ;  but  it  was  very 
exciting  all  the  same ;  and  they  listened,  and  were  lis- 
tened to  in  turn,  without  a  gesture  of  incredulity — nor 
even  a  smile  !  And  we  small  boys  held  our  tongues  in 
reverence  and  awe. 

When  Josselin  came  back  he  had  wondrous  things  to 
tell  too — but  so  prejiosterous  that  they  disbelieved  him 
quite  openly,  and  told  him  so.  llow  in  London  he  had 
seen  a  poor  woman  so  tipsy  in  the  street  that  she  had  to 
be  carried  away  by  two  policemen  on  a  stretcher,  llow 
he  had  seen  brewers'  dray-horses  nearly  six  feet  high  at 
the  shoulder  —  and  one  or  two  of  them  with  a  heavy 
cavalry  mustache  drooping  from  its  upper  lip. 

llow  he  had  been  presented  to  the  Lord  Mayor  of 
London,  and  even  shaken  hands  with  him,  in  LeadenluiU 
Market,  and  that  his  Lordship  was  quite  plainly  dressed ; 


58 


and  how  English  Lord  Mayors  were  not  necessarily 
''hommes  du  monde,"  nor  always  hand  in  glove  with 
Queen  Victoria  ! 

Splendide  mendax  ! 

But  they  forgave  him  all  his  mendacity  for  the  sake 
of  a  new  accomplishment  he  had  hrought  hack  with  him, 
and  which  beat  all  his  others.  He  could  actually  turn  a 
somersault  backwards  with  all  the  ease  and  finish  of  a 
professional  acrobat.  IIow  he  got  to  do  this  I  don't 
know.  It  must  havo  been  natural  to  him  and  he  never 
found  it  out  before;  he  was  always  good  at  gymnastics — 
and  all  things  that  required  grace  and  agility  more  than 
absolute  strength. 

Also  he  brought  back  with  him  (from  Leadenhall 
Market,  no  doubt)  a  gigantic  horned  owl,  fairly  tame — 
and  with  eyes  that  reminded  us  of  le  grand  Bonzig's. 

School  began,  and  with  it  the  long  evenings  with  an 
hour's  play  by  lamp-light  in  the  warm  salle  d'otudes  ; 
and  the  cold  lamp-lit  ninety  minutes'  preparation  on  an 
empty  stomach,  after  the  short  perfunctory  morning 
prayer — which  didn't  differ  much  from  the  evening  one. 

Barty  was  still  en  cinqitUme,  at  the  top  I  and  I  at  the 
tail  of  the  class  immediately  above — so  near  and  yet  so 
far  !  so  I  did  not  have  many  chances  of  improving  my 
acquaintance  with  him  that  term ;  for  he  still  stuck  to 
Laferte  and  Bussy-Rabutin — they  were  inseparable,  those 
three. 

At  mid- day  play-time  the  weather  was  too  cold  for 
anything  but  games,  which  were  endless  in  their  variety 
and  excitement ;  it  would  take  a  chapter  to  describe 
them. 

It  is  a  mistake  to  think  that  French  school-boys  are 
(or  were)  worse  off  than  ours  in  this.  I  will  not  say 
that  any  one  French  game  is  quite  so  good  as  cricket  or 


59 


rily 


football  for  ji  pormanoiioy.  But  I  remember  a  great 
many  that  are  very  nearly  so. 

Indeed,  French  rounders  (la  balle  an  camp)  seems  to 
me  the  best  game  that  ever  was — on  account  of  the  quick 
rush  and  struggle  of  the  fielders  to  get  home  when  an 
inside  boy  is  hit  between  the  bases,  lest  he  should  pick 
the  ball  up  in  time  to  hit  one  of  them  with  it  before  the 
camp  is  reached  ;  in  which  case  there  is  a  most  exciting 
scrimmage  for  the  ball,  etc.,  etc. 

Barty  was  good  at  all  games,  especially  la  balle  au 
camp.  I  used  to  envy  the  graceful,  easy  way  he  threw 
the  ball  —  so  quick  and  straight  it  seemed  to  have  no 
curve  at  all  in  its  trajectory  :  and  how  it  bounded  otf  the 
boy  it  nearly  always  hit  between  the  shoulders  ! 

At  evening,  play  in  the  school-room,  besides  draughts 
and  chess  and  backgammon  ;  M.  Bonzig,  when  de  service, 
would  tell  us  thrilling  stories,  with  "la  suite  au  pro- 
chain  numero"when  the  bell  rang  at  7.30;  a  long  series 
that  lasted  through  the  winter  of  '47-'48.  Le  Tueur  (h 
Daims,  Le  Lac  Ontario,  Le  Dernier  des  Mohicans,  Les 
Piomiiers,  La  Prairie — by  one  Fenimore  Coup6re  ;  all 
of  which  he  had  read  in  M.  Defauconpret's  admirable 
translations.  I  have  read  some  of  them  in  their  native 
American  since  then,  myself.  I  loved  them  always — 
but  they  seemed  to  lack  some  of  the  terror,  the  fresh- 
ness, and  the  charm  his  fluent  utterance  and  solemn  nasal 
voice  put  into  them  as  he  sat  and  smoked  his  endless 
cigarettes  with  his  back  against  the  big  stone  stove,  and 
his  eyes  dancing  sideways  through  his  glasses.  Never 
did  that  *'ding-dang-dong"  sound  more  hateful  than 
when  le  graiul  Bonzig  was  telling  the  tale  of  Bas-de-cuir's 
doings,  from  his  innocent  youth  to  his  noble  and  pathetic 
death  by  sunset,  with  his  ever-faithful  and  still-service- 
able but  no  longer  deadly  rifle  (the  friend  of  sixty  years) 


60 


his  knees.     I  quote  from  memory ;  what  a 


lying  across 
gun  that  was  ! 

Then  on  Thursdays,  long  walks,  two  by  two,  in  Paris, 
with  Bonzig  or  Duniollard;  or  else  in  tlic  Bois  to  [)lay 
rounders  or  prisoners'  base  in  a  clearing,  or  skate  on 
the  Mare  aux  Biches,  which  was  always  so  hard  to  find 
in  the  dense  thi(;ket  .  .  .  poor  Lord  Runswick  !  He 
found  it  once  too  often  ! 

La  Mare  d'Auteuil  was  too  deep,  and  too  popular  with 
*'la  flotte  de  Passy,"  as  we  called  the  Passy  voyous,  big 
and  small,  who  came  there  in  tiieir  hundreds — to  slide 
and  pick  up  quarrels  with  well-dressed  and  respectable 
school-boys.  Liberte — egalite — fraternite  !  on  la  mort! 
Vive  la  republique  !  (This,  by-the-way,  applies  to  the 
winter  that  came  next.) 

So  time  wore  on  with  us  gently  ;  through  the  short 
vacation  at  New-year's  day  till  the  23d  or  24th  of  Feb- 
ruary, when  the  Revolution  broke  out,  and  Louis  Phi- 
lippe premier  had  to  fly  for  his  life.  It  was  a  very  troub- 
lous time ,  and  the  school  for  a  whole  week  was  in  a 
state  of  quite  heaveidy  demoralization  !  Ten  times  a 
day,  or  in  the  dead  of  night,  the  drum  would  beat  le 
rappel  or  ht  f/enerale.  A  warm  wet  wind  was  blowing — 
the  most  violent  wiiul  I  can  remember  that  was  not  an 
absolute  gale.  It  didn't  rain,  but  the  clouds  hurried 
across  the  sky  all  djiy  long,  and  the  tops  of  the  trees 
tried  to  bend  themselves  in  two ;  and  their  leafless 
boughs  and  black  broken  twigs  littered  the  deserted  play- 
ground— for  we  all  sat  on  the  parapet  of  the  terrace  by 
the  lingerie;  boys  and  servants,  le  pere  et  la  mere  .Jau- 
rion,  Mile.  Marceline  and  the  rest,  looking  towards  Paris 
— all  feeling  bound  to  each  other  by  a  (!ommon  danger, 
like  wild  beasts  in  a  flood.  Dear  mo  !  I'm  out  of  breath, 
from  sheer  pleasure  iu  the  remembrance. 


61 


One  night  we  had  to  sleep  on  the  floor  for  fear  of 
stray  bullets  ;  and  that  was  a  fearful  joy  never  to  be  for- 
gotten— it  almost  kept  us  awake  !  Peering  out  of  the 
school-room  windows  at  dusk,  we  saw  great  fires,  three 
or  four  at  a  time.  Suburban  retr-^ats  of  the  over- 
wealthy,  in  full  conflngration  ;  and  all  day  the  rattle  of 
distant  musketry  and  the  boom  of  cannon  a  long  way 
off,  near  Afontmartre  and  Montlancon.  kept  us  alive. 

Most  of  the  boys  went  home,  and  .some  of  them  never 
came  back — and  from  that  ^!.iy  the  school  began  to  slow- 
ly decline.  Pere  Hrossard — mu  ancient  "Brigand  de  la 
Loire,"  as  the  republicans  of  his  youth  were  called — was 
elected  a  representative  of  his  native  town  at  the  Cham- 
ber of  J)eputies;  and  possibly  that  did  the  school  more 
hiirm  than  good — ne  sutor  ultra  crepidani !  as  he  was  so 
fond  of  impressing  on  ns  ! 

However,  we  went  on  pretty  much  as  usual  through 
spring  and  summer — with  occasioiuil  alarms  (winch  we 
loved),  and  beatings  of  Ic  rappd — tijl  the  July  insurrec- 
tion broke  out. 

My  motbcr  and  sister  had  left  Mile.  Jalabert's,  and 
now  lived  witli  my  father  near  the  Boulevard  Mont- 
martre.  And  when  the  lighting  was  at  its  bciglit  they 
came  to  fetch  me  hoiiu',  and  invited  iiarty,  for  the 
liolians  were  away  from  Paris.  So  home  we  walked, 
(|uite  leisurely,  on  a  lovely  peaceful  snnuni'r  evening, 
wliile  the  muskets  rattled  and  the  cannons  roared  lonnd 
us,  but  at  a  proper  distance  ;  women  [ticking  iineu  for 
lint  and  chatting  genially  the  while  at  shop  doors  and 
porter's  lodge-gates;  and  a  [)i(|uet  of  soldiers  at  the 
corner  of  every  street,  who  felt  us  all  over  for  bidden 
cartridges  before  they  let  us  through  :  it  wns  all  en- 
trancing !  The  subtle  sciMit  of  gunpowder  was  in  tlu^ 
air — the  most  suggisstive  smell  there  can  be.     Even  now, 


I 


here  in  Eiighind,  the  iiiglit  of  the  fifth  of  November 
never  comes  round  but  I  iini  pleasantly  reminded  of  the 
days  when  1  was  ''en  pieine  revolution"  in  the  streets 
of  Paris  with  my  father  and  mother,  and  Harty  and  my 
little  sister — and  genial  pion-j)iouf<  made  such  a  conscien- 
tious examination  of  our  garments.  Nothing  brings 
back  the  past  like  a  sound  or  a  smell — even  those  of  a 
penny  squib  I 

Every  now  and  then  a  litter  borne  by  -oldiers  came 
by,  on  which  lay  a  dead  or  wounded  olliccr.  And  then 
one's  laugh  died  suddeidy  out,  and  one  felt  one's  self 
face  to  face  with  the  horrors  that  were  going  on. 

Barty  shared  my  bed,  and  we  lay  awake  talking  half 
the  night ;  dreadful  as  it  all  was,  one  couldn't  help  being 
jolly  !  Every  ten  minutes  the  sentinel  on  duty  in  the 
court-yard  below  would  sententiously  intone  : 

*' Sentinelles,  prenez-garde  a  vous  !"  And  other  sen- 
tinels would  repeat  the  cry  till  it  died  away  in  the  dis- 
tance, like  an  echo. 

And  all  next  day,  or  the  day  after — or  else  the  day 
after  that,  when  the  long  rattle  of  the  musketry  had  left 
olf — we  heard  at  intervals  the  **feu  de  peloton"iii  '  tield 
behind  the  church  of  St. -Vincent  de  I'aul,  and  knew  that 
at  every  discharge  a  dozen  poor  devils  of  insurgents, 
caught  red-handed,  fell  dead  in  a  [)ool  of  blood  ! 

1  need  hardly  say  that  before  three  days  were  over  the 
irre])ressible  Harty  had  made  a  comjdete  conquest  of  my 
small  family.  My  sister  (I  hasten  to  say  this)  has  loved 
him  as  a  brother  ever  siiu'e  ;  ami  as  long  as  my  parents 
lived,  and  wiuu'ever  they  nuule  their  home,  that  home 
has  ever  been  his  -ami  he  has  been  their  son — almost 
their  eldest  born,  though  he  was  youiiucr  than  1  by  seven 
months. 

Things  have  been   reversed,  however,  for  now  thirty 


63 


is- 


years  unci  more  ;  and  his  has  ever  been  the  home  for  me, 
and  his  people  have  been  my  peojile,  and  ever  will  be — 
and  the  God  of  his  worshij)  mine  ! 

What  ehildrcn  and  grandehildren  of  my  own  could 
ever  be  to  me  as  these  of  Barty  Josselin's  ? 

*'Ce  sacre  Josselin — il  avait  tons  les  talents  V 

And  the  happiest  of  these  gifts,  and  not  the  least  im- 
portant, was  the  gift  he  liad  of  imparting  to  his  offspring 
all  that  was  most  brilliant  and  amiable  and  attractive 
in  himself,  and  leaving  in  them  nnimpaired  all  that  was 
strongest  and  best  in  the  woman  I  loved  as  well  as  he 
did,  and  have  loved  as  long — and  have  grown  to  look 
upon  as  belonging  to  the  highest  female  type  that  can 
be  ;  for  doubtless  the  Creator,  in  His  infinite  wisdom, 
might  have  created  a  better  ard  a  nicer  woman  than 
Mrs.  liarty  Josselin  that  was  to  be,  had  He  thought  fit 
to  do  so  ;  but  doubtless  also  He  never  did. 

Alas  !  the  worst  of  us  is  that  the  best  of  us  are  those 
that  want  the  longest  knowing  to  tind  it  out. 

My  kind-hearted  but  cold-mannered  and  undemon- 
strative Scotch  father,  evangelical,  a  total  abstaifier,  with 
a  horror  of  tobacco— surely  tiu)  austerest  dealer  in  French 
wines  that  ever  was — a  puritanical  hater  of  bar  sinisters, 
and  prolligacy,  and  Home,  an<l  rank,  and  the  army,  and 
especially  the  stage — he  always  lumped  thcju  together 
more  or  less  —  a  despiser  of  all  things  Freiieli,  except 
their  wines,  which  he  never  drank  iumseir — rciiiaine(l 
devoted  to  liarty  till  the  day  of  his  death  ;  and  so  with 
my  dear  genial  mother,  whose  heart  yet  always  yearned 
towards  serious  boys  who  worked  hard  at  school  aiul  col- 
lege, and  passed  brilliant  examinations,  and  got  scholar- 
ships and  fellowships  in  England,  and  state  sinecures  in 
France,  and  nnirried  I'arly.  and  let  their  mothers  choose 
their  wives  for  them,  and  train  n[i  their  children  in  the 


64 


way  they  should  go.  She  had  lived  so  long  in  France 
that  slie  was  Frenclier  than  the  Frencli  themselves. 

And  they  both  loved  good  music — Mozart,  Bach,  Bee- 
thoven— and  were  almost  priggish  in  their  contempt  for 
anything  of  a  ligliter  kind  ;  especially  with  a  lightness 
p]nglisli  or  French  !  It  was  only  the  musical  lightness 
of  Germany  they  could  endure  at  all  !  But  whether  in 
Paris  or  London,  enter  Barty  Josselin,  idle  schoolboy, 
or  dandy  dissipated  guardsman,  and  fashionable  man 
about  town,  or  bohemian  art  student  ;  and  Bach,  lebe- 
wohl !  good-bye,  Beethoven  !  bonsoir  le  bon  Mozart !  all 
was  changed  :  and  welcome,  instead,  the  last  comic  song 
from  the  Chateau  des  Fleurs,  or  Evans's  in  Covent  Gar- 
den ;  the  latest  patriotic  or  seiitimentid  ditty  by  Loisa 
Puget,  or  Frederic  Berat,  or  Eliza  Cook,  or  Mr.  Henry 
Uussell. 

And  then,  what  would  Barty  like  for  breakfast,  din- 
ner, supper  after  the  plav,  and  which  of  all  those  bur- 
gundies would  do  Barty  good  without  giving  him  ahead- 
ache  next  morning  ?  and  where  was  Barty  to  have  his 
smoke?— in  the  library,  oi  course.  "Ijight  the  fire  in 
the  library,  Mary;  *uid  Mr.  liob  [that  was  inc]  can  smoke 
there,  too,  instead  of  going  ontside,"  etc.,  etc.,  etc.  It  is 
small  winidcr  tluit  he  grew  a  bit  seltish  at  times. 

Tliongh  1  was  a  little  joyous  now  and  then,  it  is  quite 
without  ;i  shadow  of  bitterness  or  envy  that  I  write  all 
this.  I  have  lived  for  lil'ty  years  umler  the  charm  of  that 
genial,  uiu'onscious.  irp'sistible  tvranny  ;  and,  unlike  my 
dear  parents,  I  have  lived  to  read  aiul  know  Barty  Jos- 
selin, nor  merely  to  see  and  bear  and  love  him  for  him- 
self alone. 

Indeed,  it  was  quite  impossible  to  ki'ow  Barty  at  all 
intinuitely  and  not  do  whatever  ''o  wanted  you  to  do. 
Whatever  he  wanted,  he  war  Uul  so  intensely,  and  at  once  ; 


65 


and  he  had  such  a  droll  and  engaging  way  of  expressing 
that  hurry  and  intensity,  and  especially  of  expressing  his 
gratitmle  and  delight  when  what  he  wanted  was  what 
he  got — that  you  could  not  for  the  life  of  you  hold  your 
own  !     Tout  vieut  a  qui  ne  salt  pas  atteiuire  ! 

Besides  whicli,  every  now  and  then,  if  thiui^s  didn't 
go  quite  as  he  wished,  he  would  fly  into  comic  ra_ii;os,  and 
hecome  quite  violent  and  intractable  for  at  least  five  min- 
utes, and  for  quite  five  minutes  more  he  would  silently 
sulk.  And  then,  just  as  suddenly,  he  would  forget  all 
about  it,  and  become  once  more  the  genial,  affectionate, 
and  caressing  creature  he  always  wi.s. 

But  this  is  going  ahead  too  fast  !  revonons.  At  the 
examinations  this  year  Barty  was  almost  brilliant,  and  I 
was  hopeless  as  usual ;  my  only  consolation  beiug  that 
after  the  holidays  we  should  at  last  be  in  the  same  class 
together,  cji  qiintritme,  and  all  through  this  hopelessness 
of  mine  ! 

Laferte  was  told  by  his  father  that  he  might  invite  two 
of  his  school-fellows  to  their  country-house  for  tlie  vaca- 
tion, so  he  asked  Josselin  and  Biissy-Habutin.  But  Bus- 
sy  couldn't  go — and,  to  my  delight,  I  went  instead. 

That  ride  all  through  the  sweet  August  night,  the 
three  of  us  on  the  imperiale  of  the  five-horsed  diligence, 
just  behind  the  conductor  and  the  driver — and  freedom, 
and  a  full  moon,  or  nearly  so — and  u  tremendous  saucis- 
son  de  Lyon  (i\  Tail,  bound  in  silver  pai>er) — and  petifs 
pains — and  six  bottles  of  biero  de  Mars — and  cigarettes 
ad  libitum,  which  of  course  we  made  ourselves  ! 

TMie  Lafertc's  lived  in  the  Department  of  lia  Sarthe,  in 
a  delightful  country-house,  with  a  large  garden  sloping 
down  to  a  transparent  stream,  which  had  willows  and 
alders  and  poplars  all  along  its  both  banks,  and  a  beauti- 
ful country  beyond. 


f 


66 


Outside  the  grounds  (where  there  were  the  old  brick 
walls,  all  overgrown  with  peaches  and  pears  and  apricots, 
of  some  forgotten  mediaeval  convent)  was  a  large  farm ; 
and  close  by,  a  water-mill  that  never  stopped. 

A  road,  with  thick  hedge-rows  on  either  side,  led  to  a 
small  and  very  pretty  toAvn  called  La  Tremblaye,  three 
miles  off.  And  hard  by  the  garden  gates  began  the  big 
forest  of  that  name  :  one  heard  the  stags  calling,  and 
the  owls  hooting,  and  the  fox  giving  tongue  as  it  hunted 
the  hares  at  night.  There  might  have  been  wolves  and 
wild-boars.     I  like  to  think  so  very  much. 

M.  Laferte  was  a  mjin  of  about  fifty — entre  les  d.nix 
ages ;  a  retired  maitre  de  forges,  or  iron-master,  or  else 
the  son  of  one  :  I  forget  which.  lie  had  a  charming 
wife  and  two  pretty  little  daughters,  Jeanne  et  Marie, 
aged  fourteen  and  twelve. 

He  seldom  moved  from  his  country  home,  which  was 
called  '^Le  Cue  des  Aulnes,"  except  to  go  shooting  in 
the  forest ;  for  he  was  a  great  sportsman  and  cared  for 
little  else.  He  was  of  gigantic  stature — six  foot  six  or 
seven,  and  looked  taller  still,  as  he  had  a  very  small  head 
and  high  shor.lders.  He  was  i\ot  an  Adonis,  and  could 
only  see  out  of  one  eye — the  other  (the  left  one,  fortu- 
nately) was  WxvA  as  if  it  were  made  of  glass — perliaps  it 
was — and  this  gave  him  a  stern  and  rather  forbidding 
expression  of  face. 

He  had  just  been  elected  Mayor  of  La  Tremblaye,  beat- 
ing the  Comte  de  la  Tremblaye  by  many  votes.  The 
Comte  was  a  royalist  and  not  popular.  The  republican 
M.  Laferte  (who  was  immensely  charitable  and  very  just) 
was  very  popular  indeed,  in  si)ite  of  a  morose  and  gloomy 
manner.  He  could  even  be  violent  at  tinu's,  and  then  he 
was  terrible  to  see  and  hear.  Of  course  his  wife  and 
daughters  were  gentleness  itself,  and  so  was  his  sou,  and 


67 


'  •*! 


everybody  who  came  into  contact  with  him.     Si  vis  pa- 
cem,para  belhun,  as  Pore  Brossard  used  to  impress  upon  us. 

It  was  the  strangest  country  household  I  have  ever 
seen,  in  France  or  anywhere  else.  Tliey  were  evidently 
very  well  off,  yet  they  preferred  t^  eat  their  mid-day  meal 
in  the  kitchen,  which  wns  immense;  and  so  was  the  mid- 
day meal — and  of  a  succulency  !  .  .  . 

An  old  wolf-hound  always  lay  by  the  huge  log  fire; 
often  with  two  or  three  fidgety  cats  fighting  for  the  soft 
places  on  him  and  making  him  growl ;  five  or  six  other 
dogs,  non-sporting,  were  always  about  at  meal-time. 

The  servants — three  or  four  peasant  women  who  wait- 
ed on  us — talked  all  the  time;  and  were  fntoi/ees  by  the 
family.  Farm-laborers  came  in  and  discussed  agricultu- 
ral matters,  manures,  etc.,  quite  informally,  squeezing 
their  bonnets  de  coton  in  their  hands.  The  postman  sat 
by  the  fire  and  drank  a  glass  of  cider  and  smoked  his 
pipe  up  the  chimney  while  the  letters  were  read — most 
of  them  out  loud — and  were  commented  upon  by  every- 
body in  the  most  friendly  spirit.  All  this  made  the  meal 
last  a  long  time. 

M.  Laferto  always  wore  his  blouse — except  in  the  even- 
ing, and  then  he  wore  a  brown  woollen  vareuse,  or  jer- 
sey ;  unless  there  were  guests,  when  he  wore  his  Sun- 
day morning  best.  He  nearly  always  .spoke  like  a  ])ea8- 
ant,  although  he  was  really  a  decently  educated  man — or 
should  have  been. 

His  old  mother,  who  was  of  good  family  and  eijrhj 


ighty 


years  of  age,  lived  in  .i  ([uite  humble  cottage  in  a  small 
street  in  La  Treinblaye,  with  two  little  i)casant  girls  to 
wait  on  her  ;  and  the  La  Tremblayes,  with  whom  M. 
Lafertc  was  not  on  s})caking  terms,  wen^  always  coming 
into  the  village  to  see  her  and  bring  her  fruit  and  fiowera 
and  game.     She  was  a  most  accomplished  old  lady,  and 


I 


68 


an  excellent  musician,  and  had  known  Monsieur  de  La- 
fayette. 

We  breakfasted  with  her  when  we  alighted  from  the 
diligence  at  six  in  the  morning ;  and  she  took  such  a 
fancy  to  Barty  that  her  own  grandson  was  almost  for- 
gotten. He  sang  to  her,  and  she  sang  to  him,  and  showed 
him  autograph  letters  of  Lafayette,  and  a  lock  of  her 
hair  when  she  was  seventeen,  and  old-fashioned  minia- 
tures of  her  father  and  mother.  Monsieur  and  Madame 
de  something  Fve  quite  forgotten. 

M.  Laferte  kept  a  pack  of  bassets  (a  kind  of  bow-legged 
beagle),  and  went  shooting  with  them  every  day  in  the 
forest,  wet  or  dry ;  sometimes  we  three  boys  with  him. 
He  lent  us  guns — an  old  single- barrelled  flint-lock  cav- 
alry musket  or  carbine  fell  to  my  share ;  and  I  knew 
happiness  such  as  I  had  never  known  yet. 

Barty  was  evidently  not  meant  for  a  sportsman.  On 
a  very  warm  August  morning,  as  he  and  I  squatted  "  h 
Tafftit"  at  the  end  of  a  long  straight  ditch  outside  a 
thicket  which  the  bassets  were  hunting,  we  saw  a  hare 
running  full  tilt  at  us  along  the  ditch,  and  we  both  fired 
together.  The  hare  shrieked,  and  turned  a  big  somer- 
sault and  fell  on  its  back  and  kicked  convulsively — its 
legs  still  galloping — and  its  face  and  neck  were  covered 
with  blood ;  and,  to  my  astonishment,  Barty  became 
quite  hysterical  with  grief  at  what  we  had  done.  It's 
the  only  time  I  ever  saw  him  cry. 

**Ca'lnI  Cain!  qu'us-tti  fait  de  ton  f Href  he  Bhrieked 
again  and  again,  in  a  high  voice,  like  a  small  chili's — 
like  the  hare's. 

I  calmed  him  down  and  promised  I  wouldn't  tell,  and 
he  recovered  himself  and  bagged  the  game — but  he  never 
came  out  shooting  with  us  again  !  So  I  inherited  his 
gun,  which  was  double-barrelled. 


69 


Barty's  accomplishments  soon  became  the  principal 
recreation  of  the  Laferte  ladies ;  and  even  M.  Laferte 
himself  would  start  for  the  forest  an  hour  or  two  later 
or  come  back  an  hour  sooner  to  make  Barty  go  through 
his  bag  of  tricks.  He  would  have  an  arm-chair  brought 
out  on  the  lawn  after  breakfast  and  light  his  short  black 
pipe  and  settle  the  programme  himself. 

First,  "  le  saut  pkrilleux  " — the  somersault  backwards 
— over  and  over  again,  at  intervals  of  two  or  three  min- 
utes, so  as  to  give  himself  time  for  thought  and  chuckles, 
while  he  smoked  his  pipe  in  silent  stodgy  jubilation. 

Then,  two  or  three  songs — they  would  be  stopped,  if 
M.  Laferte  didn't  like  them,  after  the  first  verse,  and 
another  one  started  instead ;  and  if  it  pleased  him,  it 
was  encored  two  or  three  times. 

Then,  pen  and  ink  and  p^^  ^r  were  brought,  and  a 
small  table  and  a  kitchen  chair,  and  Barty  had  to  draw 
caricatures,  of  which  M.  Laferte  chose  the  subject. 

"Maintenant,  fais-moi  le  profil  de  mon  vieil  ami  M. 
Bonzig,  que  j'  n'  connais  pas,  que  j'  n'ai  jamais  vu,  mais 
q'  j'aime  beaucoup."  (Now  do  me  the  side  face  of  my 
old  friend  M.  Bonzig,  whom  I  don't  know,  but  am  very 
fond  of.) 

And  so  on  for  twenty  minutes. 

Then  Barty  had  to  be  blindfolded  and  twisted  round 
and  round,  and  point  out  the  north — when  he  felt  up 
to  it. 

Then  a  pause  for  reflection. 

Then  :  "Dis-moi  que'q'  chose  en  anglais." 

"How  do  you  do  very  well  hey  diddle-diddle  Ch.iches- 
ter  church  in  Chichester  church-yard  !"  says  Barty. 

"Qu6V9J^veut  direr 

"  II  s'agit  d'une  eglise  et  d'un  cimetidre  I"  says  Barty 
— rather  sadly,  with  a  wink  at  me. 


> 


70 


"C'est  pas  gjii !  Qm'  vllaiiio  langue,  hein  ?  J'  suis 
jolimeiit  content  que  j'  suis  pas  Tanglais,  moi !"  (It's 
not  lively  !  What  a  beastly  language,  eh?  I'm  pr  eious 
glad  /  don't  know  Englisli.) 

Then  :  "  Demon tre-moi  un  pr()l)leme  de  geometrie." 

Barty  wouM  then  do  a  simple  problem  out  of  Legendre 
(the  French  Euclid),  and  M.  Laferto  would  look  on  with 
deep  interest  and  admiration,  but  evidently  no  compre- 
hension whatever.  Tiien  he  would  take  the  pen  him- 
self, and  draw  a  shapeless  figure,  with  A's  and  B's  and 
C's  and  D's  stucHv  all  over  it  in  impossible  places,  and 
quite  at  hazard,  and  say  : 

*'Demontre-moi  que  A  +  B  est  plus  grand  que  C-I-D-" 
It  was  mere  idiotic  nonsense,  and  he  didn't  know  better  ! 

But  Barty  would  manage  to  demonstrate  it  all  the 
siune,  and  M.  Laferte  w(nUd  sigh  deeply,  and  exclaim, 
"  C'est  joliment  beau,  la  geometrie  !" 

Then:  ''Danse  !" 

And  Barty  danced  "  hi  Paladine,"  and  did  Scotch  reels 
and  Irish  jigs  and  break  -  downs  of  his  own  invention, 
amidst  roars  of  laughter  from  all  the  family. 

Finally  liie  gentlemen  of  the  party  went  down  to  the 
river  for  a  swim — and  old  Laferte  would  sit  on  the  bank 
and  smoke  his  brille-gueule,  and  throw  carefully  selected 
stones  for  B;irty  to  dive  after — and  feel  he'd  scored  off 
Barty  when  the  proper  stone  wasn't  found,  and  roar  in 
his  triumpli  After  wliich  he  would  go  and  pick  the 
finest  peach  no  could  find,  and  peel  it  with  his  pocket- 
knife  very  neatly,  and  when  Barty  was  dressed,  present 
it  to  him  with  a  kindly  look  in  both  eyes  at  once. 

"  Mange-moi  (;a — 9a  t'  fera  du  bien  !" 

Then,  suddenly :  ''  Pourquoi  q'  tu  n'aimes  pas  la 
chasse  ?  t'as  pas  peur,  j'esi)ere  I''  (Why  don't  you  like 
shooting  ?  you're  not  afraid,  I  hope  I) 


72 


It  t 


Sais  pas/"  said  Josselin  ;  **  don't  like  killing  things, 


I 


suppose. 


So  Barty  became  quite  indispensable  to  the  happiness 
and  comfort  of  Pero  Polypheme,  as  he  called  him,  as 
well  as  of  liis  amiable  family. 

On  the  1st  of  September  there  was  a  grand  breakfast 
in  honor  of  the  partridges  (not  in  the  kitchen  this  time), 
and  many  guests  were  invited  ;  and  Barty  had  to  sing 
and  talk  and  play  the  fool  all  through  breakfast ;  and 
got  very  tipsy,  and  had  to  be  put  to  bed  for  the  rest  of 
the  day.  It  was  no  fault  of  his,  and  Madame  Laferte 
declared  that  "  ces  messieurs"  ought  to  be  ashamed 
of  themselves,  and  watched  over  Barty  like  a  mother. 
He  has  often  declared  he  was  never  quite  the  same 
after  tha^,  debauch — and  couldn't  feel  the  north  for  a 
month. 

The  house  was  soon  full  of  guests,  and  Barty  and  i 
slept  in  M.  Laferte's  bedroom  —  his  wife  in  a  room  ad- 
joining. 

Every  inoruing  old  Polyphemus  would  wake  us  up  by 
roaring  out : 

*'  Ho  !  ma  femme  !" 

**  Voila,  voila,  mon  ami  !"  from  the  next  room. 

**Vieus  vite  panser  mon  cautere  !" 

And  in  came  Madame  L.  in  her  dressing-gown,  and 
dressed  a  blister  he  wore  on  his  big  arm. 

Then:  ''Cafe!" 

And  colfec  came,  and  he  drank  it  in  bed. 

Then:   "Pipe!" 

And  his  2)ipe  was  brought  and  filled,  and  he  lit  it. 

Then:  '* Josselin  !" 

"Oui,  M'sieur  Laferte." 

"Tire  moi  une  gamme." 

•'DoremifasoUasido — Dosilasolfamiredo  !"  sang  Josse- 


■78 


lin,  up  and  down,  in  beautiful  tune,  with  his  fresh  bird- 
like soprano. 

*' Ah  !  q'  9a  fait  du  bien  I"  says  M.  L.;  then  a  pause, 
and  puffs  of  smoke  and  grunts  and  sighs  of  satisfaction. 

"Josselin?" 

"  Qui,  M'sieur  Laferto  !" 

'^'LabruneTheresel'" 

And  Josselin  would  sing  about  the  dark-haired  Theresa 
— three  verses. 

"Tu  as  change  la  fin  du  second  couplet  — tu  as  dit 
'  des  comtesses '  au  lieu  de  dire  '  des  duchesses  '—recom- 
mence !"  (You  changed  the  end  of  the  second  verse— 
you  said  ''countesses"  instead  of  '' duchesses  "—begin 

again.) 

And  Barty  would  re-sing  it,  as  desired,  and  bring  in 

the  duchesses. 

''  Maintenant,  '  Colin,  disait  Lisette  !'  " 

And  Barty  would  sing  that  charming  little  song,  most 
charmingly  : 

"'Colin,' disait  Lisette, 

'  Je  voudrais  passer  I'eau  I 
Mais  je  suis  trop  pauvielte 

Pour  payer  le  bateau  !* 
•  Entrez,  entrez,  ma  belle  ! 

Entrez,  eutrez  toujoura  I 
Et  vogue  la  nacelle 

Qui  porte  mes  amours  I"  * 

And  old  L.  would  smoke  and  listen  with  an  air  of 
heavenly  beatitude  almost  pathetic. 

*'Elle  etait  bien  gentille,  Lisette— n'est-ce  pas,  petiot? 
—recommence  !"  (She  was  very  nice,  Lisette ;  wasn't 
she,  sonny  ? — being  again  !) 

"Now  both  get  up  and  wash  and  go  to  breakfast. 
Come  here,  Josselin— you  see  this  little  silver  dagger'' 


74 


(producing  it  from  under  his  pillow).  ''It's  rather 
pointy,  but  not  at  all  dangerous.  My  mother  gave  it 
me  when  1  was  just  your  age — to  cut  books  with  ;  it's 
for  you.  Allons,  file  !  [cut  along]  no  thanks  ! — but  look 
here — are  you  coming  with  us  a  la  chasse  to-day  ?" 

''Non,  M.  Laferte." 

''Pourquoi  ? — t'as  pas  peur,  j'espere  V 

"  Sais  pas.  J'  n'aime  pas  les  choses  mortes — (;a  saigno 
— et  9a  n'  sent  pas  bon — 9a  m'  fait  mal  an  canir."  (Don't 
know.  I'm  not  fond  of  dead  things.  They  bleed — 
and  they  don't  smell  nice — it  makes  me  sick.) 

And  two  or  three  times  a  day  would  Barty  receive 
some  costly  token  of  this  queer  old  giant's  affection,  till 
he  got  quite  unhapj)y  about  it.  He  feared  he  was  de- 
spoiling the  House  of  Lafertu  of  all  its  treasures  in  silver 
and  gold  ;  but  he  soothed  his  troubled  conscience  later 
on  by  giving  them  all  away  to  favorite  boys  and  masters 
at  Brossard's  —  especially  M.  Bonzig,  who  had  taken 
charge  of  his  white  mouse  (and  her  family,  now  quite 
grown  up  —  children  and  grandchildren  and  all)  when 
Mile.  Marceline  went  for  her  fortnight's  holiday.  In- 
deed, he  had  nuide  a  beautiful  cage  for  them  out  of 
wood  and  wire,  with  little  pasteboard  numgcrs  (which 
they  nibbled  away). 

Well,  tlu^  men  of  the  party  ami  young  Laferte  and  I 
would  go  olf  witii  tlie  dogs  and  keepers  into  the  forest — 
and  Barty  would  pick  filberts  and  fruit  with  .leanne  and 
Marie,  aiul  eat  them  with  ])read-aml-butt('r  and  jam  and 
eernaux  (unripe  walnuts  mixed  with  salt  and  water  and 
verjuice  —  ([uito  the  nicest  thing  in  the  world).  'I'lien 
he  would  find  his  way  into  the  heart  of  the  forest,  which 
he  loved — and  wlua'c  he  Inid  scra})0(l  14)  a  warm  friend- 
shii)  with  some  cliarcoal-burners,  whose  hiils  were  near 
un  old  yellow-watered  pond,  very  l)rackish  and  stiignant 


75 


ler 

it 

t's 
ok 


and  deep,  and  full  of  leeches  and  water-t^piders.  It  was 
in  the  densest  part  of  the  forest,  where  the  trees  were 
so  tall  and  leafy  that  the  sun  never  fell  on  it,  even  at 
noon.  The  charcoal  -  burners  told  him  that  in  '93  a 
young  de  la  Tremblaye  was  taken  there  at  sunset  to  bo 
hanged  on  a  giant  oak-tree — but  he  talked  so  agreeably 
and  was  so  pleasant  all  round  tluit  they  relentetl,  and 
sent  for  bread  and  wine  and  eider  and  made  a  night  of 
it,  and  didn't  hang  him  till  dawn  next  day  ;  after  which 
they  tied  a  stone  to  his  ankles  and  dropped  him  into  the 
pond,  which  was  called  *'  the  pond  of  the  respite"  ever 
since  ;  and  his  young  wife,  Claire  l^lisabeth.,  drowned 
herself  there  the  week  after,  and  their  bones  lie  at  the 
bottom  to  this  verv  dav. 

And,  ghastly  to  relate,  the  ringlet  ler  in  this  horrible 
tragedy  was  a  beautiful  young  wonuiu,  a  daughter  of 
the  people,  it  seems — one  tSeraphint^  Doucet,  whom  the 
young  viscount  had  betrayed  before  marriage — le  droit 
du  seigneur  I — and  but  for  whom  he  would  have  been  let 
off  after  that  festi''e  night.  Ten  or  tifteen  years  later, 
smitten  with  incurable  remorse,  she  hanged  herself  on 
the  very  branch  of  the  very  tree  where  they  had  strung 
up  her  noble  lover;  and  still  walks  round  thic  pond  at 
night,  wringing  her  hands  and  wailing.  It's  a  sad  story 
— let  us  lio[)e  it  isn't  true. 

BiU'ty  Josselin  evidently  had  this  pond  in  his  mind 
when  lie  wrote  in  "Ames  en  peine": 

8ous  ]iv  borgc  liitiiU'e 

L't'iiu  inonio  ciinipit — 
Sous  la  soniliic  fiiliiiu 
lid  roiiMitl  ,ul!i|>it , 
Et  lo  c'crf   (lix  cois  bnimo,  ct  Ics  (laiins  viiiinciil  boirc  u  ll-^Uing 
du  U('![)it. 

"Lfichcif;  luoi,  Loup^iiroux  !" 


76 


Que  sinistre  est  la  raare 
Quand  tombe  la  nnit ; 
La  cliouette  s'efiFare — 
Le  hlaireau  s'enfuit ! 
L'on  y  sent  que  Ics  morts  se  reveilleot — qu'une  ombre  sans  nom 
vous  poiirsuil. 

"  Mchez-moi,  Loup-garoiix  !" 

Foiot  !  forct  I  wh;it  a  magic  there  is  in  that  little 
French  dissyllablo  I  Morne  forot !  Is  it  the  lost  "  h," 
and  the  heavy  '*'^"  that  makes  up  i'or  it,  which  lend 
such  a  mysterious  and  gloomy  fascination  Y 

Forest!  that  sounds  ratlier  tame  —  almost  cheerful! 
If  2ve  want  a  forest  dream  we  have  to  go  so  far  back  for 
it,  and  dream  of  Robin  Hood  and  his  merrie  men  !  and 
e7en  then  Epping  forces  itself  into  our  drenm — and  even 
Chingford,  where  there  was  never  a  were  -  wolf  within 
the  memory  of  man.  Give  us  at  least  the  virfjiii  forest, 
in  some  far  Guyana  or  Brazil  —  or  even  the  forest  pri- 
meval— 


tt 


' .  .  .  where  the  murmurini?  pines  and  the  hemioeks, 
Bearded   with  moss  and   in   garments  green,  indistinct   in  the 

twilight, 
Stand  like  druids  of  eld,  with  voices  sad  and  prophetic, 
Stand  like  harpers  hoar" — 


that  WO  mny  dream  of  scalp- hunting  Mingoes.  and 
grizzly-bears,  and  moose,  and  biiiralo.  aiul  the  beloved 
Bas-de-cuir  with  that  miigic  rifle  of  his,  tlnit  so  sehh^m 
missed  its  murk  and  never  got  out  of  repair. 

"  Prom'nouM  nous  dans  les  bois 
Pendr.nt  que  le  loup  n'y  est  pas.  ,  .  ." 


That's  the  first  song  I  ever  heard.      Celine  used  to 
sing  it,  my  nurse — '  'h)  was  very  lovely,  though  she  had 


w 


a  cast  in  her  eye  and  wore  a  black  cap,  and  cotton  in 
her  ears,  and  was  pitted  with  the  smallpox.  It  was  in 
Burgundy,  which  was  rich  in  forests,  with  plenty  of 
wolves  in  tnem,  and  wild-boars  too — and  that  was  only 
a  hundred  years  ago,  when  that  1  was  a  little  tiny  boy. 
It's  just  an  old  nursery  rhyme  to  lull  children  to  sleep 
with,  or  set  them  dancing — pas  aut'  chose — but  there's  a 
deal  of  Old  France  in  it ! 

There  I  go  again  —  digressing  as  nsnal  and  quoting 
poetry  and  trying  to  be  literary  :  nd  all  that  !  C'est  plus 
fort  que  inoi.  .  .  . 

One  beautiful  evening  after  dinner  we  went,  the  whole 
lot  of  u.s,  fishing  for  crayfish  in  the  meadows  beyond 
the  home  farm. 

As  we  set  about  waiting  for  the  crayfish  to  assemble 
round  the  bits  of  dead  frog  that  served  for  bait  and  were 
tied  to  the  wire  scales  (which  were  left  in  the  water),  a 
procession  of  cows  came  past  us  from  the  farm.  One 
of  them  had  a  wound  in  her  flank — a  large  tumor. 

**  It's  the  bull  who  did  that,"  said  Marie.  *'  II  est  tres 
m^chant !" 

Presently  the  bull  appeared,  following  the  herd  in 
sulky  dignity.  We  all  got  up  and  crossed  the  stream  on 
a  narrow  plank — all  but  Josselin,  who  remained  sitting 
on  a  camp-stool. 

*•  Josselin  !  Josselin  !  venez  done  I  il  est  tr6s  mauvais, 
le  taureau  !" 

Barty  didn't  move. 

The  bull  came  by  ;  and  suddenly,  seeing  him,  walked 
straight  to  witiiin  a  yard  of  iiim — and  s.ared  at  him  for 
five  minutes  at  least,  lashing  its  tail.  Barty  didn't  stir. 
Our  hearts  were  in  our  mouths  ! 

Then  the  big  brindled  brute  turned  quietly  round  with 
a  friendly  snort  and  wont  after  the  cows — and  Barty  got 


ts 


np  and  made  it  a  courtly  "arewell  oalnte,  saying,  "  Bon 
voyage — an  plaisir  !" 

After  wliicli  he  joined  the  rest  of  ns  across  the  stream, 
and  came  in  for  a  good  scolding  and  much  passionate 
admiration  from  tlie  ladies,  and  huggings  and  tears  of 
relief  from  ^ladanie  Lat'erte. 

"  T  kiunv  well  he  wouldn't  be  afraid  I"  said  ^F.  Laferte  ; 
"they  are  all  like  that,  those  English — le  sang-froid  du 
(liable  I  nom  d'un  Vellington  !  It  is  we  wlio  were  afraid 
— Ave  are  not  so  l)rave  as  the  little  Josselin  I  plucky 
little  Josselin  I  Jiut  why  did  you  not  come  with  us  ? 
Temerity  is  not  valor,  Josselin  !'' 

"  Beciiuse  I  wanted  to  show  otT  [  fdirc  le  fi())/(tron'] !" 
said  Barty,  v.'ith  exlreuie  simplicity. 

'*' Ah,  (liable!  Anyliow.it  was  brave  of  you  to  sit 
still  when  he  came  and  looked  at  you  in  the  white  of 
the  eyes  I  it  was  Just  the  right  thing  to  do  ;  ces  An- 
glais I  jo  n'en  reviens  pas  !  a  (puitorze  ans  I  liein,  ma 
temme  r 

*' Pardi  !"  said  Barty,  "I  was  in  such  a  blue  funk 
Ij'avais  une  venette  si  bleuej  that  I  couldn't  luivc  moved 
a  linger  to  save  my  life  !"' 

At  this,  old  Polyphemus  went  into  a  Homeric  peal  of 
laughter. 

*'  Ces  Anglais  I  what  orignuUs — they  tell  you  the  real 
truth  at  any  cost  [ils  vous  disent  la  vraie  verite.  coAte 
([ue  coAteJ  I"  and  his  alTeclion  For  iiarty  seemed  to  in- 
crease, if  possible,  from  that  evening. 

Now  this  was  liartv  all  over — all  through  life,  lie 
always  gave  himself  away  with  a  liberality  (piite  uncalled 
for — so  he  ought  to  have  sonu'  allowances  nuide  for  that 
reckless'  ..ad  iir.pulsive  indiscretion  which  caused  hnn  to 
be  s'.o  injiulur  ii;  reneral  society,  but  got  him  into  so 
muuy  k\vi;i>vavd  a-jiMjiies  in  uf tor-life,  and  made  him  suuh 


^ 


w 


80 


mean  enemies,  and  gave  his  friends  so  mneh  anxiety  anci 
distress. 

(And  here  I  think  it  right  to  apologize  for  so  much 
translating  of  such  a  well-known  language  as  French  ;  I 
feel  qnite  like  another  Ollendorf — who  must  have  been 
a  German,  by-the-way — but  M.  Laferte's  grammar  and 
accent  would  sometimes  have  puzzled  Ollendorf  him- 
self !) 


Towards  the  close  of  September,  M.  Lafert6  took  it 
into  his  head  to  make  a  tour  of  provincial  visits  en 
famiUe.  He  had  never  done  such  a  thing  before,  and  I 
really  believe  it  was  all  to  show  off  Barty  to  his  friends 
and  relations. 

\\  was  the  happiest  time  I  ever  had,  and  shines  out  by 
itself  in  that  already  so  unforgettably  delightful  vaca- 
tion. 

We  went  in  a  large  charabancs  drawn  by  two  stout 
horses,  starting  at  six  in.  the  morning,  and  driving  right 
through  the  Forest  of  la  Tremblaye  ;  and  just  ahead  of 
us,  to  show  us  the  way,  M.  Laferto  driving  himself  in 
an  old  cabriolet,  with  Josselin  (from  whom  he  refused 
to  be  parted)  by  his  side,  singing  or  talking,  according  to 
order,  or  cracking  jokes ;  we  could  hear  the  big  laugh 
of  Polyphemus  ! 

We  travelled  very  leisurely ;  1  forget  whether  we  ever 
changed  horses  or  not — but  we  got  over  a  good  deal  of 
ground.  We  put  up  at  the  country  houses  of  friends 
and  relations  of  the  Lafertes ;  and  visited  old  historical 
castles  and  'nediieval  ruins — Chateaudun  and  otiiers — 
and  fished  in  beautiful  pellucid  tributaries  of  tliv 
Loire — shot  over  *^dc8  chiens  anglais  "--danced  iialf  ti. " 
night  with  charming  people — wandered  in  lovely  parka 
and  woods,  and  beautiful  old  formal  gardens  with  flgh- 


81 


ponds,  terraces,  statues,  marble  fountains  ;  charmilles, 
pelonses,  qninconces  ;  and  all  the  flower?;  and  all  the 
fruits  of  France  !  And  the  sun  shone  every  day  and  all 
day  long — and  in  one's  dreams  all  night. 

And  the  peasants  in  that  happy  country  of  the  Loire 
spoke  the  most  beautiful  French,  and  had  the  most 
beautiful  manners  in  the  world.     They're  famous  for  it. 

It  all  seems  like  a  fairy  tale. 

If  being  made  much  of,  and  petted  and  patted  and 
admired  avid  wondered  at,  make  up  the  sum  of  hunuin 
bliss,  Barty  came  in  for  as  full  a  sliare  of  felicity  dur- 
ing that  festive  week  as  should  last  a]i  ordinary  mortal 
for  a  twelvemonth.  Figaro  qna,  Fif/aro  hi,  from  morn- 
ing till  night  in  three  departments  of  France  I 

But  he  didn't  seem  to  care  very  nnicb  about  it  all  ; 
he  would  have  been  far  happier  sir  '  ig  and  tumbling 
and  romancing  away  to  his  charbonniers  by  the  pond  in 
the  Forest  of  la  Tremblaye.  He  declared  he  was  never 
quite  himself  unless  he  could  feel  the  north  for  at  least 
an  hour  or  two  every  day,  and  all  night  loTig  in  his  sleep 
— and  that  he  should  never  feel  the  north  again — that 
it  was  gone  forever;  that  he  had  drunk  it  all  away 
at  that  fatal  breakfast  —  and  it  made  hiui  lonely  to 
wake  up  in  the  luiddh;  of  the  night  and  not  know  vvhiidi 
"way  he  lay  I  '*  depayse,"  as  he  called  it — "desoriente — 
perdu  !'' 

And  laughing,  he  would  add,  "  Ayez  pitie  d'un.  pauvre 
orphelin  I" 


Then  back  to  Le  due  des  An  lues.  And  one  evening, 
after  a  good  supper  at  (irandmainan  Lafta'te's,  the  dili- 
gence de  Paris  cann^  jingling  and  rumbling  through  the 
main  street  of  La  Trenililayc  (hishing  right  and  left  its 
two  big  lamps,  red  and  blue.     And  \vc  three  boys,  after 


82 


the  most  gnitefiil  and  iiffectionate  farewells,  packed 
ourselves  into  the  coupe,  which  had  heen  retained  for 
us,  and  rumbled  back  to  Paris  through  the  night. 

There  was  quite  a  crowd  to  see  iirf  olf.  Not  only 
Lafertes,  but  others — all  sorts  and  conditions  of  men, 
women,  and  children — and  among  them  three  or  four  of 
Barry's  charcoal-burning  friends;  one  of  whom,  an  old 
man  with  magnificent  black  eyes  and  an  immense  beard, 
that  would  have  been  white  if  he  hadn't  been  a  charcoal- 
burner,  kissed  Barty  on  both  cheeks,  and  gave  him  a 
huge  bag  full  of  some  kind  of  forest  berry  that  is  good 
to  eat ;  also  a  young  cuckoo  (which  Barty  restored  to 
liberty  an  hour  later) ;  also  a  dormouse  and  a  large  green 
lizard ;  also,  in  a  little  pasteboard  box,  a  gigantic  pale 
green  caterpillar  four  inches  long  and  thicker  than  your 
thumb,  with  a  row  of  shiny  blue  stars  in  relief  all  along 
each  side  of  its  back — the  most  beautiful  thing  of  the 
kind  you  ever  saw. 

"Pioche  bieu  ta  geometric,  mon  bon  petit  Josselin  ! 
c'est  la  plus  belle  science  au  monde,  crois-moi  V  said  M. 
Laferte  Barty,  and  gave  him  the  hug  of  a  grizzly- 
bear;  ana  o  me  he  gave  a  terrific  hand- squeeze,  and  a 
beautiful  double-barrelled  gun  by  Lefaucheux,  for  which 
I  felt  too  supremely  grateful  to  find  suitable  thanks.  I 
liave  it  now,  but  I  have  long  given  up  killing  things 
with  it. 

I  had  grown  inmiensely  fond  of  this  colossal  old 
"  bourru  bienl'aisant,"  as  he  was  called  in  La  Trenil)laye, 
and  believe  that  all  his  morosencss  and  brutality  were 
put  on,  to  hide  one  of  the  warmest,  simplest,  and  ten- 
derest  hearts  in  the  world. 

Before  dawu  Barty  woke  up  with  such  a  start  that  he 
woke  me : 

"  Enfiu  !  ya  y  est !  quelle  chance  I"  he  exclaimed. 


83 


'^Qnoi,  qiioi,  qiioi  ?"  stiiil  I,  (iiuicking  like  a  dnck. 

*'  Jjo  iiord — e'est  revenii — it's  just  alieud  of  us — a  little 
to  the  left  1" 

We  were  Hearing  Paris. 

And  thus  ended  the  proudest  and  happiest  time  I  ever 
had  in  my  life.  Indeed  I  almost  had  an  adventure  on 
my  own  account — inie  bonne  fortune,  as  it  was  called  at 
liroft.«uj rd's  by  boys  hardly  older  than  myself.  I  did  not 
brag  of  it,  however,  when  I  got  back  to  school. 

It  was  at  "  Les  Laiteries,"  or  "  Les  Poteries,"  or  ''Les 
Crucheries,"or  some  such  place,  the  charming  abode  of 
Monsieur  et  Madame  lY'lisson  —  only  their  name  wasn't 
Pelisson,  or  anything  like  it.     At  dinner  I  sat  next  to 

a  Miss  ,  who   was  very  tall   and  wore   blond   side 

ringlets.  I  think  she  must  have  been  the  English  gov- 
erness. 

We  talked  very  much  together,  in  English  ;  and  after 
dinner  we  walked  in  the  garden  together  by  starlight 
arm  in  arm,  and  she  was  so  kind  and  genial  to  me  in 
English  that  I  felt  quite  chivalrous  and  romantic,  and 
ready  to  do  doughty  deeds  for  her  sake. 

Then,  at  M.  Pelisson's  request,  all  the  company  assem- 
bled in  a  group  for  evening  prayer,  under  a  spreading 
chestnut-tree  on  the  lawn :  the  prayer  sounded  very 
much  like  the  morning  or  evening  prayer  at  Brossard's, 
except  that  the  Almighty  was  addressed  as  '*toi"  instead 
of  "vous";  it  began  : 

"Notre  Pere  qui  es  aux  cieux  —  toi  dont  le  regard 
Bcrutateur  pdnietre  j usque  dans  les  replis  les  plus  pro- 
fonds  de  nos  cceurs" — and  ended,  *'  Ainsi  soit-il  !'* 

The  night  was  very  dark,  and  1  stood  close  to  Miss 

,  who  stood  as  it  seemed  with  her  hands  somewhere 

behind  her  back.  I  was  so  grateful  to  her  lor  having 
talked  to  me  so  nicely,  and  so  fond  of  her  for  being  Eng- 


J;: 


84 


lish,  that  the  impulse  seized  me  to  steal  my  hand  into 
hers  —  and  her  hand  met  mine  with  a  gentle  squeeze 
which  I  returned  ;  but  soon  tlie  pressure  of  her  hand  in- 
creased, and  by  the  time  M.  le  Cure  had  got  to  "au  nom 
du  Pere  "  the  pressure  of  her  hand  had  become  an  agony 
— a  thing  to  make  one  shriek  ! 

"Ainsi  soit-il!''  said  M.  lo  Cure,  and  the  little  group 

broke  up,  and  Miss walked  quietly  indoors  with  her 

arm  around  Madame  Pelisson's  waist,  and  without  even 
wishing  me  good-night — and  my  hand  was  being  squeezed 
worse  than  ever. 

**Ah  ha!  Lequel  de  nous  deux  est  vole,  petit  co- 
quin  ?"  hissed  an  angry  male  voice  in  my  ear — (which  of 
us  two  is  sold,  you  little  rascal  ?). 

And  I  found  my  hand  in  that  of  Monsieur  Pelisson, 
whose  name  was  something  else — and  I  couldn't  make  it 
out,  nor  why  he  was  so  angry.  It  has  dawned  upon  me 
since  that  each  of  us  took  the  other's  hand  by  mistake 
for  that  of  the  English  governess  ! 

All  this  is  beastly  and  cynical  and  French,  and  I  apol- 
ogize for  it — but  it's  true. 


October ! 

It  was  a  black  Monday  for  me  when  school  began  again 
after  that  ideal  vacation.  The  skies  they  were  ashen 
and  sober,  and  the  leaves  they  were  crisped  and  sere. 
But  anyhow  I  was  still  en  qtiatrihne,  and  Barty  was  in 
it  too — and  we  sat  next  to  each  other  in  "L'etude  des 
grands." 

Tliere  was  only  one  etude  now  ;  only  half  the  boys 
came  back,  and  the  pavilion  des  petits  was  shut  up, 
study,  class-rooms,  dormitories,  and  all — except  that  two 
masters  slept  there  still. 

Eight  or  ten  small  boys  were  put  in  a  small  school- 


MEHOVEK   1UN08   T.IK    HKLL 


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> 


IMAGE  EVALUATION 
TEST  TARGET  (MT-3) 


1.0 


1.1 


11.25 


1^12,8    12.5 


1.4 


IE 
1.6 


Photographic 

Sdences 
Corporation 


^ 


^v 


;\ 


\ 


« 


23  WIST  MAIN  STRUT 

WIUTH.N.Y.  MStO 

(716)  •73-4S03 


'>^ 

'f 


86 


room  in  the  same  house  as  ours,  and  had  a  small  dor- 
mitory to  themselves,  with  M.  Bonzig  to  superintend 
them. 

I  made  up  my  mind  that  I  would  no  longer  be  a  cancre 
and  a  cretin,  but  work  hard  and  do  my  little  bent,  so  that 
I  might  keep  up  with  Barty  and  pass  into  the  troisihne 
with  him.  and  then  into  RMtorique  (seconde),  and  then 
into  Philosophie  (premiere) — that  we  might  do  our  hu- 
manities and  take  our  degree  together — our  ''  Bachot," 
which  is  short  for  Baccalaureat-h-lettres.  Most  espe- 
cially did  I  love  Monsieur  Durosier's  class  of  French 
Literature — for  which  M^rov6e  always  rang  the  bell  him- 
self. 

My  mother  and  sister  were  still  at  Ste.-Adresse,  Havre, 
with  my  father ;  so  I  spent  my  first  Sunday  that  term 
at  the  Archibald  Rohans^  in  the  Rue  du  Bac. 

I  had  often  seen  them  at  Brossard's,  when  they  came 
to  see  Barty,  but  had  never  been  at  their  house  before. 

They  were  very  charming  people. 

Lord  Archibald  was  dressing  when  we  got  there  tbat 
Sunday  morning,  and  we  sat  with  him  while  he  shaved 
— in  an  immense  dressing-room  where  tliere  were  half 
a  dozen  towel-horses  with  about  thirty  pairs  of  newly 
ironed  trousers  en  them  instead  of  towels,  and  quite 
thirty  pairs  of  shiny  boots  on  trees  were  ranged  along 
the  wall.  James,  an  impeccable  English  valet,  waited 
on  "his  lordship,"  and  never  spoke  unless  spoken  to. 

"  Hullo,  Barty  !    Who's  your  friend  ?" 

"Bob  Maurice,  Uncle  Archie." 

And  Uncle  Archie  shook  hands  with  me  most  cor- 
dially. 

"And  how's  the  north  polo  this  morning  ?" 

"  Nicely,  thanks.  Uncle  Archie." 

Lord  Archibald  was  a  very  tall  and  handsome  man, 


f 


87 


abont  tifty — very  droll  and  full  of  anecdote  ;  he  had 
stories  to  tell  about  everything  in  the  room. 

For  instance,  how  Major  Welsh  of  the  10th  Hussars 
had  given  him  that  pair  of  Wellingtons,  wh"ch  fitted  him 
better  than  any  boots  Hoby  ever  made  him  to  measure  ; 
they  were  too  tight  for  poor  Welsh,  who  was  a  head 
shorter  tlian  himself. 

How  Kerlewis  made  him  that  frock-coat  fifteen  years 
ago,  and  it  wasn't  threadbare  yet,  and  fitted  him  as  well 
as  ever — for  he  hadn't  changed  his  weight  for  thirty 
years,  etc. 

How  that  pair  of  braces  had  been  made  by  "my  lady" 
out  of  a  pair  of  garters  she  wore  on  the  day  they  "  3re 
married. 

And  then  he  told  us  how  to  keep  trousers  from  bag- 
ging at  the  kneerf,  and  how  cloth  coats  should  be  ironed, 
and  how  often— -and  how  to  fold  ar  umbrella. 

It  suddenly  c^curs  to  me  that  perhaps  these  little 
anecdotes  may  not  be  so  amusing  to  the  general  reader 
as  they  were  to  me  when  he  told  them,  so  I  won/t  tell 
any  more.  Indeed,  I  have  often  noticed  that  things  look 
sometimes  rather  dull  in  print  that  were  so  surprisingly 
witty  when  said  in  spontaneous  talk  a  great  many  years 
ago! 

Then  we  went  to  breakfast  with  my  lady  and  Daphne, 
their  charming  little  daughter  —  liarty's  sister,  as  he 
called  her — "m'amour" — and  who  spoke  both  French 
and  Englisii  equally  well. 

But  we  didn't  breakfast  at  once,  ravenous  as  we  boys 
were,  for  Lady  Archibald  took  a  sudden  dislike  to  Lord 
A.'s  cravat,  which,  it  seems,  he  had  never  worn  before. 
It  was  in  brown  satin,  and  Lady  A.  declared  that  Loulou 
(so  she  called  him)  never  looked  ''en  bfaute"  with  a 
brown  cravat ;  and  there  was  quite  a  little  quarrel  be- 


^ 


88 


tween  husband  and  wifo  on  tlie  .subject — so  tliat  he  had 
to  go  back  to  his  dressing-room  and  put  on  a  blue  one. 

At  breakfast  he  talked  al)out  French  soldiers  of  the 
line,  and  their  matching  kit  (as  it  would  be  called  now), 
(juite  earnestly,  and,  as  it  seemed  to  nm,  very  sensibly — 
tiiough  he  went  through  little  mimicries  that  made  his 
wife  scream  with  laughter,  and  me  too ;  and  in  the  mid- 
dle of  breakfast  Barty  sang  *'Le  Chant  du  Depart"  as 
well  as  he  could  for  laughiug  : 

"  La  victoire  en  clianfant  nous  ouvre  la  carri(^re  ! 
La  libcrle-e  gni-i-de  nos  pas"  .  .  . 

while  Lord  A.  went  through  an  expressive  pantomime 
of  an  overladen  foot-soldier  up  and  down  the  room,  in 
time  to  the  music.  The  only  person  who  didn't  laugh 
was  James— which  I  thought  ungenial. 

Then  Lady  A.  had  her  innings,  and  sang  *'Kule  liri- 
t;innia,  Britannia  rule  de  vaves" — and  declared  it  was  far 
more  ridiculous  really  than  the  *' Chant  du  Depart,"  and 
she  nuide  it  seem  so,  for  she  went  tiirough  a  pantomime 
too.  She  was  a  most  delightful  person,  and  spoke  Eng- 
lish quite  well  when  she  chose  ;  and  seemed  as  fond  of 
Harty  as  if  he  were  her  own  and  oidy  son — and  so  did 
Lord  Archibald.     She  would  say  : 

"Quel  dounnage  qu'on  ne  pent  pas  avoir  des  crom- 
pettes  [crumpets)!  13arty  les  aime  tant !  n'est-ce  pas, 
mon  chou,  tu  ainms  bien  les  crompettes  ?  voici  veiiir 
du  buttered  to.ist — c'est  toujours  (;a  !" 

And,  *'  Mon  Dieu,  comme  il  a  bonue  mine,  ce  cher  Barty 
— n'est-ce  pas,  mon  amour,  (jue  tu  as  bonne  mine  ?  re- 
garde-toi  dans  la  glace." 

And,  *'  Si  nous  allions  a  I'llippodruuie  cette  a}>re8-midi 
voir  la  belle  ecuyt>ro  Madaiue  Uitdiard  ?  liarty  adore  les 
jolios  fenunos,  conimo  sou  ouclo  !  n'ost-uo  pas,  mcchuut 


petit  Barty,  que  tu  a<]ores  les  jolies  femmes  ?  et  tii  n'as 
jamais  vii  Madame  Uiciuird  ?  'Vn  mVn  dims  des  nou- 
velle.s  !  et  vous,  moii  ami  [tiiis  to  me],  est-ce  que  vous 
adorez  aussi  les  jolies  femmes  ?" 

"0  oui,"  says  Daphne,  "allons  voir  M'amo  Kiehard  ; 
it  '11  be  such  fun  !  oh,  bully  !" 

So  after  breakfast  we  went  for  a  walk,  and  to  a  cafe 
on  the  Quai  d'Orsay,  and  then  to  the  Hippodrome,  and 
saw  the  beautiful  eeuyere  in  <]jraeeful  feats  of  la  haute 
ecole,  and  lost  our  hearts  —  espeeially  Lord  Archibald, 
though  him  she  knew ;  for  she  kissed  her  hand  to  him, 
and  he  his  to  her. 

Then  we  dined  at  the  Palais  Royal,  and  afterwards 
went  to  the  Cafe  des  Aveugles,  an  uiulergniund  oolfee- 
house  near  the  Cafe  de  la  Kotonde,  and  where  blind  men 
made  instrumental  music;  and  we  had  a  capital  evening. 

I  have  met  in  my  time  more  intellectual  people,  per- 
haps, than  the  Archibald  Rohans — but  never  people  more 
amiable,  or  with  kinder,  simpler  manners,  or  who  made 
one  feel  more  quickly  and  thoroughly  at  home — and  the 
more  I  got  to  know  them,  the  more  I  grew  to  like  them ; 
and  their  fondness  for  each  other  and  ')aphne,  and  for 
Barty  too,  was  (piite  touching;  as  was  his  for  them.  So 
the  winter  sped  happily  till  February,  when  a  sad  thing 
happened. 

1  had  spent  Sunday  with  my  mother  and  sister,  who 
now  lived  on  the  ground-floor  of  lOS  Champs  Klysees. 

I  slept  there  that  Sunday  night,  and  walked  back  to 
school  next  morniui:.  To  my  surprise,  as  1  got  to  a 
large  field  through  which  a  dingonal  footpath  led  to 
Vivo  Jaurion's  loge,  I  saw  live  or  six  boys  sitting  on  the 
terrace  parapet  with  their  legs  dangling  outside.  They 
should  have  been  in  class,  by  rights.  They  watched  me 
cross  the  Held,  but  made  no  sign. 


90 


' 


"What  on  earth  can  be  the  matter  ?"  thought  I. 

The  cordon  was  pulled,  and  I  came  on  a  group  of  boys 
all  stiff  and  silent. 

"  Qu'est-co  que  vous  avez  done,  tons  ?"  I  asked. 

**  Le  P6re  Brossard  est  mort !"  said  I)e  Villars. 

Poor  M.  Brossard  had  died  of  apoplexy  on  the  previous 
[ifternoon.  Ho  had  run  to  catch  the  Passy  omnibus  di- 
rectly after  lunch,  and  had  fallen  down  in  a  fit  and  died 
immediately. 

**  II  est  tomb6  du  haut  mal" — as  they  expressed  it. 

His  son  Merovee  and  his  daughter  Madame  Germain 
were  distracted.  The  whole  of  that  day  was  spent  by 
the  boys  in  a  strange,  unnatural  state  of  desamvrement 
and  suppressed  excitement  for  which  no  outlet  was  pos- 
sible. The  meals,  especially,  were  all  but  unbearable. 
One  was  ashamed  of  having  an  appetite,  and  yet  one  had 
— almost  keener  than  usual,  if  1  may  judge  by  myself — 
and  for  some  undiscovered  reason  the  food  was  better 
than  on  other  Mondays ! 

Next  morning  we  all  went  up  in  sorrowful  procession 
to  kiss  our  poor  dear  head-master's  cold  forehead  as  he 
lay  dead  in  his  bed,  with  sprigs  of  boxwood  on  his  pillow, 
and  above  his  head  a  jar  of  holy  water  with  which  we 
sprinkled  him.  He  looked  very  serene  and  majestic,  but 
it  was  a  harrowing  ceremony.  Merovee  stood  by  with 
swollen  eyes  and  deatlily  pale — incarnate  grief. 

On  Wednesday  afternoon  M.  Brossard  was  buried  in 
the  Cimetiere  de  Passy,  a  tremendous  crowd  following 
the  hearse  ;  the  boys  and  masters  just  behind  Merovee 
and  M,  Germain,  the  chief  male  mourners.  The  women 
walked  in  another  separate  procession  behind. 

Beranger  and  Alphonse  Karr  were  present  among  the 
notabilities,  and  speeches  were  made  over  his  open  gra^':, 
for  he  was  a  very  distinguished  man. 


■ 


91 


And,  tragical  to  relate,  that  evening  in  the  stndy 
Barty  and  I  fell  out,  and  it  led  to  a  stand-up  tight  next 
day. 

There  was  no  preparation  that  evening ;  he  and  I  sat 
side  by  side  reading  out  of  a  book  by  Chateaubriand — 
either  Atala,  or  Jiene  or  Lcs  Natchez,  1  forget  whicb.  I 
have  never  seen  either  since. 

The  study  was  hushed  ;  M.  Durnolhird  was  de  service 
{IS  maitrc  irHudes,  although  there  was  no  attempt  to  do 
anything  but  sadly  read  improving  books. 

If  I  remember  aright,  Kene,  a  very  sentimental  young 
Frenchman,  who  had  loved  the  wrong  person  not  wisely, 
but  too  well  (a  very  wrong  person  indeed,  in  his  case), 
emigrated  to  North  America,  and  there  he  met  a  beauti- 
ful Indian  maiden,  one  Atala,  of  the  Natcheii  tribe,  who 
had  rosy  heels  and  was  charming,  and  whose  entire  skin 
was  probably  a  warm  dark  red,  althougii  this  is  not  in- 
sisted upon.  She  also  had  a  brother,  whose  name  was 
Outogamiz. 

Well,  Kene  loved  Atala,  Atala  loved  Rene,  and  they 
were  married ;  and  Outogamiz  went  through  some  cere- 
mony besides,  which  made  him  blood  brother  and  bosom 
friend  to  Rene — a  bond  which  involved  certain  obligatory 
rites  and  duties  and  self-sacrifices. 

Atala  died  and  was  buried.  Rene  di(3d  and  was  buried 
also  ;  and  every  day,  as  in  duty  bound,  jjoor  Outogamiz 
went  and  pricked  a  vein  and  bled  over  Rene's  tomb,  till 
he  died  himself  of  exhaustion  before  he  was  many  weeks 
older.     I  quote  entirely  from  memory. 

This  simple  story  was  told  in  very  touching  and  beau- 
tiful language,  by  no  means  telegraphese,  and  Barty  and  I 
were  deeply  affected  by  it. 

**I  say,  Bob  !"  Baity  whispered  to  me,  with  a  break  in 
his  voice,  *'  some  day  I'll  marry  your  sister,  aud  we'll  all 


92 


go  oflP  to  America  together,  and  she'll  die,  and  /'U  die, 
and  you  shall  hlced  yourself  to  death  on  my  tomb  I" 

"'  No,"  said  I,  after  a  moment's  thought.  '*  No — look 
here  !  /'ll  marry  j/our  sister,  and  7'11  die,  and  yon  shall 
bleed  over  mf/  tomb  !" 

Then,  after  a  pause  : 

**  1  haven't  got  a  sister,  as  you  know  quite  well — and 
if  I  had  she  wouldn't  be  for  you  /"  says  Barty. 

"  Why  not  ?" 

"Because  you're  not  good-looking  enough!"  says 
Barty. 

At  this,  jnst  for  fun,  I  gave  him  a  nudge  in  the  wind 
with  my  elbow — and  he  gave  me  a  ''  twisted  pinch  "  on 
the  arm — and  I  kicked  liim  on  the  ankle,  but  so  much 
harder  than  I  intended  that  it  hurt  him,  and  he  gave  me 
a  tremendous  box  on  the  ear,  and  we  set  to  fighting  like 
a  couple  of  wild -cats,  without  even  getting  up,  to  the 
scandal  of  the  whole  study  and  the  indignant  disgust  of 
M.  Dumollard,  who  separated  us,  and  read  ns  a  pretty 
lecture  : 

'*  VoilA,  bien  les  Anglais  ! — rien  n'est  sacre  pour  eux, 
pas  meme  la  mort !  rien  que  lea  chiens  et  les  chevaux." 
(Nothing,  not  even  death,  is  sacred  to  Englishmen — 
nothing  but  dogs  and  horses.) 

When  we  went  up  to  bed  the  head-boy  of  the  school — 
a  first -rate  boy  called  d'Orthez,  and  Berquin  (another 
first-rate  boy),  who  had  each  a  bedroom  to  himself,  came 
into  tlie  dormitory  and  took  up  the  quarrel,  and  discussed 


what  should  be  done.     Both  of  us  were  En{rlish--er 


gt>> 


both  of  us  ought  to  box  away  the  insult  with  our  fists  ;  so 
"tliey  set  a  combat  us  between,  to  fecht  it  in  the  daw- 
ing" — that  is,  just  after  breakfast,  in  the  school-room. 

1  went  to  bed  very  unhappy,  and  so,  I  think,  did  Barty. 

Next  morning  at  six,  just  after  the  morning  prayer, 


93 


M.  Merovee  came  into  the  school-room  and  made  ns  a 
most  straightforward,  manly,  and  affecting  speech  ;  in 
which  he  told  us  he  meant  to  keep  on  the  school,  and 
thanked  us,  boys  and  masters,  for  our  sympathy. 

We  were  all  moved  to  our  very  depths — and  sat  at  our 
work  solemn  and  sorrov/ful  all  through  that  lamp-lit 
hour  and  a  half  ;  we  hardly  dared  to  cough,  and  never 
looked  up  from  our  desks. 

Then  7.30 — ding-dang-dong  and  breakfast.  Thursday 
— bread-and-butter  morning  I 

I  felt  hungry  and  greedy  and  very  sad,  and  disinclined 
to  figliL  Barty  and  I  had  sat  turned  away  from  each 
other,  and  made  no  attempt  at  reconciliation. 

We  all  went  to  the  refectoire  :  it  was  raining  fast.  I 
made  my  ball  of  salt  and  butter,  and  put  it  in  a  hole  in 
my  hunk  of  bread,  and  ran  back  to  the  study,  where  I 
locked  these  treasures  in  my  desk. 

The  study  soon  filled  with  boys  :  no  masters  ever  came 
there  during  that  half-hour  ;  they  generally  smoked  and 
read  their  newspapers  in  the  gynnastic  ground,  or  else  in 
their  own  rooms  when  it  was  wet  outside. 

D'Orthez  and  Berquin  moved  one  or  two  desks  and 
forms  out  of  the  way  so  as  make  a  ring — I'arc^ne,  as  they 
called  it — with  comfortable  seats  all  round.  Small  boys 
stood  on  forms  Jind  window-sills  eating  their  bread-and- 
butter  with  a  tremendous  relish. 

"  Dites  done,  vous  autres,"  says  lionneville,  the  wit  of 
the  school,  who  was  in  very  high  spirits  ;  "  it's  like  the 
Roman  Empire  during  the  decadence  —  ' panem  el  cir- 
censi'n  /' " 

*'  What's  that,  circcnses  ?  what  does  it  mean  ?"  says 
Rapaud,  with  his  mouth  full. 

*' Why,  butter,  you  idiot!  Didn't  you  know  that?" 
says  Bonneville. 


J- 


94 


Biirty  iiiid  I  stood  opposite  oaoh  other;  at  his  sides  as 

seconds  were  d'Orthez  and    Berquin  ;   at  mine,  Jolivet 

trois  (the  oidy  Jolivet  now  left  in  the  school)  and  big  dii 

Tertre- Joiian   (the  young  marquis  who  wasn't  Honne- 

•ille). 

We  began  to  spar  at  each  other  in  as  knowing  and 
English  a  way  as  we  knew  how — keeping  a  very  respect- 
ful distance  indeed,  and  trying  to  bear  ourselves  as  sci- 
entifically as  we  could,  with  a  keen  expression  of  the  eye. 

When  I  looked  into  Barty's  face  I  felt  that  nothing  on 
earth  would  ever  make  me  hit  such  a  face  as  that — what- 
ever he  miglit  do  to  mine.  My  blood  wasn't  up ;  besides, 
I  was  a  coarse-grained,  thick-set,  bullet-headed  little  chap 
with  no  nerves  to  speak  of,  and  didn't  mind  punishment 
the  least  bit.  No  more  did  Barty,  for  that  matter, 
tiiough  he  was  the  most  highly  wrought  creature  that 
ever  lived. 

At  length  they  all  got  impatient,  and  d'Orthez  said  : 

"  AUez  done,  godems  —  ce  n'est  pas  un  quadrille! 
Nous  n'sommes  pas  ^  La  Salle  Valentino  !" 

And  Barty  was  pushed  from  behind  so  roughly  that  he 
came  at  me,  all  his  science  to  the  winds  and  slogging  like 
a  French  boy  ;  and  I,  quite  without  meaning  to,  in  the 
hurry,  hit  out  just  as  he  fell  over  me,  and  we  both  rolled 
together  over  Jolivet's  foot — Barty  on  top  (he  was  taller, 
though  not  heavier,  than  I);  and  I  saw  the  blood  flow 
from  his  nose  down  his  lip  and  chin,  and  some  of  it  fell 
on  my  blouse. 

Says  Barty  to  me,  in  English,  as  we  lay  struggling  on 
the  dusty  floor  : 

"  Look  here,  it's  no  good.  I  can't  fight  to-day  ;  poor 
Merovee,  you  kiunv.     Let's  make  it  up  !" 

"  All  right  !"  says  L  So  up  we  got  and  ahook  hands, 
Burty  saying,  with  mock  dignity : 


U5 


''  Messieurs,  le  sang  a  coule  ;  riionneur  britanniqne 
est  sjiuf  ;"  and  the  combat  was  over. 

"  Cristi  !  J'ai  jolimeut  faim  !"  says  Barty,  mopping 
his  nose  with  his  liandkerchief.  "  I  left  my  crust  on  the 
bench  outside  the  refectoire.  I  wish  one  of  you  fellows 
would  get  it  for  me." 

"  Rapaud  finished  your  crust  [ta  miche]  while  you  were 
fighting,"  says  Jolivet.     "  I  saw  him." 

Says  Rapaud  :  '*  Ah,  Dame,  it  was  getting  prettily  wet, 
your  crust,  and  I  was  prettily  hungry  tO'> ',  and  I  thought 
you  didn't  want  it,  naturally." 

I  then  produced  my  crust  and  cut  it  in  two,  butter  and 
all,  and  gave  Barty  half,  and  we  sat  very  happily  side  by 
side,  and  breakfasted  together  in  peace  and  amity.  I 
never  felt  happier  or  hungrier. 

"Cristi,  comme  ils  se  sont  bien  battus,"  says  little 
Vaissiere  to  little  Cormenu.  *'As-tu  vu  ?  Josselin  a 
saigne  tout  plein  sur  la  blouse  i\  Maurice."  (How  well 
they  fought !    Josselin  bled  all  over  Maurice's  blouse  !) 

Then  says  Josselin,  in  French,  turning  to  me  with 
that  delightful  Jolly  smile  that  always  reminded  one  of 
the  sun  breaking  through  a  mist : 

"  I  would  sooner  bleed  on  your  blouse  than  on  your 
tomb."  (J'aime  mieux  saigner  sur  ta  blouse  que  sur  ta 
tombe. ) 

So  ended  the  only  quarrel  we  ever  had. 


if 


on 


part  Sbicd 


"Que  ne  puis  j(i  uller  oft  s'en  vont  les  roses, 
El  u'atteudre  pas 
Ces  regrets  navrauts  que  la  fln  ties  choses 
Nojis  garde  ici-bas!" — Anon. 

Barty  worked  very  hard,  and  so  did  I — for  ?nc  !  Hor- 
ace—  Homer  —  /Eschylus  —  Plato  —  etc.,  etc.,  etc.,  etc., 
etc.,  and  all  there  was  to  learn  in  that  French  school- 
boy's encyclopaedia — '*Le  Manuel  du  Baccalaureat";  a 
very  thick  book  in  very  small  print.  And  I  came  to  the 
conclusion  that  it  is  good  to  work  hard  :  it  makes  one 
enjoy  food  and  play  and  sleep  so  keenly — and  Thursday 
afternoons. 

The  school  was  all  the  pleasanter  for  having  fewer 
boys  ;  we  got  more  intimate  with  each  other,  and  with 
the  masters  too.  During  the  winter  M.  Bonzig  told  us 
capital  stories — }fodc!<te  Mujnon,  by  Balzac — Le  CheiHilier 
de  Maison-rou()e,  by  A.  Dumas  pore— etc.,  etc. 

In  the  sumuier  tlie  Passy  swimming- bath  was  more 
delightful  than  ever.  Both  winter  and  summer  we  pas- 
sionately fenced  with  a  pupil  (un  prevot)  of  the  famous 
M.  lionnet,  and  did  gymnastics  with  M.  Louis,  the  gym- 
nastic master  of  the  College  Charlemagne  —  the  finest 
man  I  ever  saw — a  gigantic  dwarf  six  feet  high,  all  made 
up  of  lumps  of  sinew  and  muscles,  like 

Also,  we  were  taught  equitation  at  the  riding-school 
in  the  Rue  Duphot. 

On  Saturday  nights  Barty  would  draw  a  lovely  female 


d-r 


;  H 


profile,  with  a  beautiful  big  black  eye,  in  pen  and  ink, 
and  carefully  shade  it ;  especially  the  hair,  which  was  al- 
ways as  the  raven's  wing!  And  on  Sunday  morning  he  and 
I  used  to  walk  together  to  108  Champs  ifilysees  and  enter 
the  rez-de-chaussee  (where  my  mother  and  sister  lived) 
by  the  window,  before  my  mother  was  up.  Then  IJarty 
took  out  his  lovely  female  pen-and-ink  profile  to  gaze  at, 
and  rolled  himself  a  cigarette  and  lit  it,  and  lay  back  on 
the  sofa,  and  made  my  sister  play  her  lightest  music — "La 
pluie  de  Perles,"  by  Osborne — and  "Indiana,"  a  beauti- 
ful valse  by  Marcailhou — and  thus  combine  three  or  four 
perfect  blisses  in  one  happy  quart  d'heure. 

Then  my  mother  would  appear,  and  we  would  have 
breakfast — after  which  Barty  and  I  would  depart  by  the 
window  as  we  had  come,  and  go  and  do  our  bit  of  Bonle- 
vard  and  Palais  Royal.  Then  to  the  Kne  du  Bac  for 
another  breakfast  with  the  Rohans  ;  and  then,  "rtw  j^^tit 
bonheur";  that  is,  trusting  to  Providence  for  whatever 
turned  up.  The  programme  didn't  vary  very  much  :  ei- 
ther I  dined  with  him  at  the  Rohans',  or  he  with  me  at 
108.     Then,  back  to  Brossard's  at  ten — tired  and  happy. 

One  Sunday  I  remember  well  we  stayed  in  school,  for 
old  Josselin  the  fisherman  came  to  see  us  there  Barty's 
grandfather,  now  a  widower  ;  and  M.  Merovee  asked  him 
to  lunch  with  us,  and  go  to  the  baths  in  the  afternoon. 

Imagine  old  Bonzig's  delight  in  this  "  vieux  lovp  de 
me?',"  as  he  called  him  !  That  was  a  happy  day  for  the 
old  fisherman  also ;  I  shall  never  forget  his  surprise  at 
M.  Dumollard's  telescope — and  how  clever  he  was  on 
the  subject. 

He  came  to  the  baths,  and  admired  and  criticised  the 
good  swimming  of  the  boys  —  especially  Barty's,  which 
was  really  remarkable.  I  don't  bel'eve  he  could  swim  a 
stroke  himself. 


98 


Then  we  went  and  dined  together  at  Lord  Archi- 
bald's, in  the  Rue  du  Bac — ''Mon  Colonel,"  as  the  old 
fishernnin  always  called  him.  He  was  a  very  humorous 
aiid  intelligent  person,  this  fisher,  though  nearer  eighty 
than  seventy  ;  very  big,  and  of  a  singularly  picturesque 
appearance — for  he  had  not  endimanehc  himself  in  the 
least ;  and  very  clean.  A  splendid  old  man  ;  oddly 
enough,  somewhat  Semitic  of  aspect — as  though  he  had 
just  come  from  a  miraculous  draught  of  fishes  in  the 
Sea  of  Galilee,  out  of  a  cartoon  by  Raphael  ! 

I  recollect  admiring  how  easily  and  pleasantly  every- 
thing went  during  dinner,  and  all  through  the  per- 
fection of  this  ancient  sea-toiler's  breeding  in  all  essen- 
tials. 

Of  course  the  poor  all  over  the  world  are  less  nice  in 
theii'  habits  than  the  ricli,  and  less  correct  in  their 
grammar  and  accent,  and  narrower  in  their  views  of 
life  ;  but  in  every  other  respect  there  seemed  little  to 
choose  between  Josselins  and  Rohans  and  Lonlay-Sa- 
vignacs  ;  and  indeed,  according  to  Lord  Archibald,  the 
best  manners  were  to  be  found  at  these  two  opposite 
poles — or  even  wider  still.  He  would  have  it  that  Roy- 
alty and  chimney-sweeps  were  the  best -bred  people  all 
over  the  world — because  there  was  no  possible  mistake 
about  their  social  status. 

I  felt  a  little  indigiuint — after  all,  Lady  Archibald  was 
built  out  of  chocolate,  for  all  her  Lonhiy  and  her  Sa- 
vignac  !  just  as  I  was  built  out  of  Beaune  and  Oham- 
bertin. 

I'm  afraid  I  shall  be  looked  upon  as  a  snob  and  a 
traitor  to  m^  class  if  I  say  that  I  have  at  last  come  to  be 
of  the  same  opinion  myself.  That  is,  if  absolute  sim- 
plicity, and  the  abt^ence  of  all  possible  temptation  to  ♦^ry 
aud  seem  an  inch  higher  up  than  we  really  are —    But 


d9 


1 


there  !  this  is  a  very  delicate  question,  abont  which  I 
don't  care  a  straw  ;  and  there  are  such  exceptions,  and 
so  many,  to  confirm  any  such  rule  ! 

Anyliow,  I  saw  how  Barty  couhlnt  help  having  the 
manners  we  all  so  loved  him  for.  After  dinner  Lady 
Archibald  showed  old  Josselin  some  of  Barty's  lovely 
female  profiles — a  sight  that  affected  him  strangely. 
He  would  have  it  that  they  were  all  exact  portraits  of 
his  beloved  Antoinette,  Barty's  mother. 

They  were  certainly  singularly  like  each  other,  these 
little  chefs-d'oeuvre  of  Barty's,  and  singularly  handsome 
— an  ideal  type  of  his  own  ;  and  the  old  grandfather  was 
allowed  his  choice,  and  touchingly  grateful  at  being 
presented  with  such  treasures. 

The  scene  made  a  great  impression  on  me. 

So  spent  itself  that  year — a  happy  year  tliat  had  no 
history  —  except  for  one  little  in(?ident  that  1  will  tell 
because  it  concerns  Barty,  and  illustrates  him. 

One  beautiful  Sunday  morning  the  yellow  omnibus 
was  waiting  for  some  of  us  as  we  dawdled  about  in  tlie 
school-room,  titivating  ;  the  nuisters  nowhere,  as  usual 
on  a  Sunday  morning;  and  some  of  the  boys  began  to 
sing  in  chorus  a  not  very  edifying  chanm}),  whicli  they 
did  not  "Bowdlerize,"  about  a  holy  Capuchin  friar  ;  it 
began  (if  I  remember  rightly): 

"C'etuit  un  Cupuciii,  oui  bicn,  uii  p^rc;  Capiu'in, 

Qui  confcssiilt  trois  tlllcs — 
Itou,  itoii,  itou,  lit  111  III ! 

Qui  cciifcssiiii  Irois  lilies 
Au  fond  (I<!  sou  jjinliii— 

Oui  bicn—  ^ 

Au  fond  do  son  jnrdln  I  '*     IJ'^'ivera/j 

II  dit  a  lu  plus  Jeune-  •''^UOrHaCA 


\ 


100 


Itou,  itou,  itou,  Id.  ID,  I^  ! 

II  dit  d  la  plus  jeune 
.  .  'Vous  reviendrez  deniain  !'" 
Etc,  etc.,  etc. 

I  have  quite  forgotten  the  rest. 

Now  this  little  song,  '.vhicli  begins  so  innocently,  like 
a  sweet  old  idyl  of  mediaeval  FnuK.'e — "««  echo  du  temps 
passe '' — seems  to  have  been  a  somewhat  Kabelaisian 
ditty ;  by  no  means  proper  singing  for  a  Sunday  morn- 
ing in  a  boys'  school.  But  boys  will  be  boys,  even  in 
France;  and  the  famous  "esprit  Gaulois"  was  some- 
what precocious  in  the  forties,  I  suppose.  Perhaps  it  is 
now,  if  it  still  exists  (which  I  doubt — the  dirt  remains, 
but  all  the  fun  seems  to  have  evaporated). 

Sudden  '  M.  Dumollard  bursts  into  the  ^oom  in  his 
violent  sneaty  way,  pale  with  rage,  and  says  : 

**Je  vais  gifler  tous  ceux  qui  ont  chante  "  (Fll  box 
the  ears  of  every  boy  who  sang). 

So  he  puts  all  in  a  row  and  begins  : 

"Rubinel,  sur  votre  parole  d'houneur,  avez-vous 
chante  ?" 

"  Non,  m'sieur !" 
Caillard,  avez-vous  chants  ?" 
Non,  m'sieur  I" 

"  Lipmann,  avez-vous  chants  ?" 

"  Non,  m'sieur !" 

**  Maurice,  avez-vons  chants  ?" 

"Non,  m'sieur"  (which,  for  a  wonder,  was  true, 
for  I  happened  not  to  know  either  the  words  or  the 
tune). 

"  Josselin,  avez-vous  chant6  ?" 

"  Oui,  m'sieur!" 

And  down  went  Barty  his  full  length  on  the  floor, 
from  a  tremendous  open-handed  box  on  the  ear.    Dumol- 


(( 


tt 


101 


e 


lard  was  a  very  Herculean  person — though  by  no  means 
gigantic. 

Barty  got  up  and  made  Dumollard  a  polite  little  bow, 
and  walked  out  of  the  room. 

"Vousetes  tons  consignes  \"  says  M.  Dumollard — and 
the  omnibus  went  away  empty,  and  we  spent  all  that 
Sunday  morning  as  best  we  might. 

In  the  afternoon  we  went  out  walking  in  the  Bois. 
Dumollard  had  recovered  his  serenity  and  came  with  us  ; 
for  he  was  de  service  that  day. 

Says  Lipmann  to  him  : 

**  Josselin  drapes  himself  in  his  English  dignity — he 
sulks  like  Achilles  and  walks  by  himself." 

"Josselin  is  at  least  a  man,"  says  Dumolhird.  **He 
tells  the  truth,  and  doesn't  know  fear — and  I'm  sorry 
he's  English  !" 

And  later,  at  the  Mare  d'Autruil,  he  put  out  his  hand 
to  Barty  and  said  : 

**  Let's  make  it  up,  Josselin — au  moins  vous  avez  du 
coeur,  vous.  Promettez-moi  que  vous  ne  chanterez  plus 
cette  sale  histoire  de  Capucin  !" 

Josselin  took  the  usher's  hand,  and  smiled  his  open, 
toothy  smile,  and  said  : 

"Pas  le  dimauche  matin  toujours — quand  c'est  vous 
qui  serez  de  service,  M.  Dumollard  !"  (Anyhow  not  Sun- 
day morning  when  yoii're  on  duty,  Mr.  D.) 

And  Mr.  D.  left  off  running  down  the  English  in  pub- 
lic after  that — except  to  say  that  they  coiddnH  bo  simple 
and  natural  if  they  tried  ;  and  that  they  affected  a  ridic- 
ulous accent  when  they  spoke  French — not  Josselin  and 
Maurice,  but  all  the  others  ho  had  ever  met.  As  if  plain 
French,  which  had  been  good  enough  for  William  the 
Conqueror,  wasn't  good  enough  for  the  subjects  of  her 
Britannic  Majesty  to-day  I 


102 


The  only  event  of  any  importance  in  Barty's  life  that 
year  was  his  first  communion,  which  he  took  with  several 
others  of  about  his  own  age.  An  event  that  did  not 
seem  to  make  much  mipression  on  him — nothing  seemed 
to  make  much  impression  on  Barty  Josselin  when  he  was 
very  young.  He  was  just  a  lively,  irresponsible,  irre- 
pressible human  animal  —  always  in  perfect  health  and 
exuberant  spirits,  with  an  immense  appetite  for  food 
and  fun  and  frolic ;  like  a  squirrel,  a  collie  pup,  or  a 
kitten. 

Pere  Bonamy,  the  priest  who  confirmed  him,  was 
fonder  of  the  boy  than  of  any  one,  boy  or  girl,  that  he 
had  ever  prepared  for  communion,  and  could  hardly 
speak  of  him  with  decent  gravity,  on  account  of  his  ex- 
traordinary confessions — all  of  which  were  concocted  in 
the  depths  of  Barty's  imagination  for  the  sole  purpose 
of  making  the  kind  old  cure  laugh  ;  and  the  kind  old 
cure  was  just  as  fond  of  laughing  as  was  Barty  of  playing 
the  fool,  in  and  out  of  season.  I  wonder  if  he  always 
thought  himself  bound  to  respect  the  secrets  of  the  con- 
fessional in  Barty's  case  ! 

And  Barty  would  sing  to  him — even  in  the  confes- 
sional : 

"Stabiit  rnater  dolorosa 

Juxta  crucein  lachiymosa 
Duin  pencU'bat  fllius  "... 

in  a  voice  so  sweet  and  innocent  and  pathetic  that  it 
would  almost  bring  the  tears  to  the  good  old  cure's  eye- 
lash. 

**  Ah  !  ma  chere  Mamzelle  Marceline  !"  he  would  say — 
*'au  moins  s'ils  etaient  tous  comme  ce  petit  Josselin! 
qh  irait  comme  sur  des  roulettes !  II  est  innocent 
comme  un  jeune  veau,  cc  mioche  anglais  !  U  a  le  bon 
Dieu  dans  le  cceur  !" 


103 


"  Et  une  boussole  dans  Testomac  !"  said  Mllu.  Maree- 
line. 

I  doa*t  think  he  was  quite  so  innocent  as  all  tliat,  per- 
haps— but  no  young  beast  of  tiio  field  avus  ever  more 
harmless. 

That  year  the  examinations  were  good  all  round  ;  even 
/did  not  disgrace  myself,  and  JiarLy  was  brilliant.  But 
there  were  no  delightful  holidays  for  me  to  record.  Barty 
went  to  Yorkshire,  and  I  remained  in  Paris  with  my 
mother*. 

There  is  only  one  thing  more  worth  mentioning  that 
year. 

My  father  had  inherited  from  his  father  a  system  of 
shorthand,  which  he  called  Blaze — I  don't  know  why  I 
His  father  had  learnt  it  of  a  Dutch  Jew. 

It  is,  I  think,  the  best  kind  of  cipher  ever  invented  (I 
have  taken  interest  in  these  things  and  studied  them). 
It  is  very  difficult  to  learn,  but  I  learnt  it  as  a  child — 
and  it  was  of  immense  use  to  me  at  lectures  we  used  to 
attend  at  the  Sorbonne  and  College  de  France. 

Barty  was  very  anxious  to  know  it,  and  after  some 
troub;e  I  obtained  my  father's  permission  to  impart  this 
calligraphic  crypt  to  Barty,  on  conilition  he  should  swear 
on  his  honor  never  to  reveal  it :  and  this  he  did. 

With  his  extraordinary  quickness  and  the  perseverance 
he  always  had  when  ho  wished  a  thing  very  much,  he 
made  himself  a  complete  nuister  of  this  occult  science 
before  he  left  school,  two  or  three  years  later:  it  took  me 
seven  years — beginning  when  I  was  four  I  It  does  equal- 
ly well  for  French  or  English,  and  it  played  an  important 
part  in  Barty's  career.  My  sister  knew  it,  but  i!ni)er- 
fectly  ;  my  mother  not  at  all — for  all  she  tried  so  hard 
and  was  so  persevering  ;  it  must  be  lejirnt  young.  As 
far  as  I  am  aware,  no  one  else  knows  it  in  Kngland  or 


A, 


Si 


. ;  I- 


104 


France — or  even  the  world — although  it  is  such  a  useful 
invention  ;  quite  a  marvel  of  simple  ingenuity  when  one 
has  mastered  the  symbols,  which  certainly  take  a  long 
time  and  a  deal  of  hard  work. 

]5arty  and  1  got  to  talk  it  on  our  fingers  as  rapidly  as 
ordinary  speech  and  with  the  slightest  possible  gestures: 
this  was  Ms  improvement. 


Barty  came  back  from  his  holidays  full  of  Whitby,  and 
its  sailors  and  whalers,  and  fisliermen  and  cobles  and 
cliffs — all  of  which  had  evidently  had  an  immense  attrac- 
tion for  him.  He  was  always  fond  of  that  class  :  possibly 
also  some  vague  atavistic  sympathy  for  the  toilers  of  the 
sea  lay  dormant  in  his  blood  liko  an  inherited  memory. 

And  he  brought  back  many  tokens  of  these  good  peo- 
ple's regard — two  formidable  clasp-knives  (for  each  of 
which  he  had  to  pay  the  giver  one  farthing  in  current 
coin  of  the  realm);  spirit-flasks,  leather  bottles,  jet  orna- 
ments ;  woollen  jerseys  and  comforters  knitted  for  him 
by  their  wives  and  daughters  ;  fossil  ammonites  and 
coprolites  ;  a  couple  of  young  sea-gulls  to  add  to  his 
menagerie  ;  and  many  old  English  marine  ditties,  which 
he  had  to  sing  to  M.  Bonzig  with  his  now  cracked  voice, 
and  then  translate  into  French.  Indeed,  Bonzig  and 
Barty  became  inseparable  companions  during  the  Thurs- 
day promenade,  on  the  strength  of  their  common  inter- 
est in  ships  and  the  sea ;  and  Barty  never  wearied  of 
describing  the  place  he  loved,  nor  Bonzig  of  listening 
and  commenting. 

"Ah  !  mon  cher  I  ce  que  je  donnerais,  moi,  pour  voir 
le  retour  d*un  baleinier  ti  Ouittebe  !  Quelle  '  marine  *  ga 
ferait !  hein  ?  avec  la  grande  falaise,  et  la  bonne  petite 
eglise  en  haut,  pr^s  de  la  Vieille  Abbaye — et  les  toits 
rouges  qui  fument,  et  les  trois  jetees  en  pierre,  et  le 


105 


vieux  pont-levis — et  toute  cette  grouille  de  raariniers 
avec  leurs  femmes  et  leurs  enfants — et  ce3  braves  filles 
qui  attendent  le  retour  du  bien-aime  !  noni  d'un  noin  ! 
dire  que  vous  avez  vu  tout  (;a,  vous — qui  n'avez  pas  en- 
core seize  ans  .  .  .  quelle  chance !  .  .  .  dites — qu'est-ce 
que  9a  veut  bien  dire,  ce 

'  Ouile  me  sekile  r6  !' 

Chantez-moi  (ja  encore  une  fois  !" 

And  Barty,  whose  voice  was  breaking,  would  raucously 
sing  him  the  good  old  ditty  for  the  sixth  time  : 

"  Weel  may  the  keel  row,  the  keel  row,  the  keel  row, 
Weel  may  the  keel  row 
That  brings  my  laddie  home !" 

which  he  would  find  rather  difficult  to  render  literally 
into  colloquial  seafaring  French  ! 
He  translated  it  thus  : 

"  Vogue  la  car^ne. 
Vogue  la  carSne 
Qui  me  ramSne 
Mon  bien  aime  !" 

"Ah!  VOUS  verrez,"  says  Ponzig — "vous  verrez,  rtux 
prochaines  vacauces  de  Paques — je  ferai  un  si  joli  tableau 
de  tout  9a  !  avec  la  brume  du  soir  qui  tombe,  vous  savoz 
— et  le  soleil  qui  disparait — et  la  maree  qui  monte  et  la 
lune  qui  se  l^ve  u  I'horizon  !  et  les  mouettes  et  les  goe- 
lands — et  les  bruy^rcs  lointaines  —  et  io  vieux  manoir 
seigneurial  de  votre  grand-p6re  .  .  .  c'est  bien  9a,  n'est- 
ce  pas  ?" 

**Oui,  oui,  M'sieur  Bonzig — vous  y  utes,  en  plein  !" 
And  the  good  usher  in  his   excitement  would  light 
himself  a  cigarette  of  caporal,  and  inhale  the  smoke  as 


106 


if  it  were  a  sea-breeze,  and  exhale  it  like  a  regular  sou'- 
wester !  and  sing : 

"  Owile — me— sekile  lo, 
Tat  britin  my  ladde  ome  !" 

Rarty  also  hronjrlit  back  witli  liim  tlie  complete  poet- 
ical works  of  liyroii  and  Thomas  Moore,  the  gift  of  his 
noble  grandi'atlier,  who  adored  those  two  bards  to  the 
exclusion  of  all  other  bards  that  ever  wrote  in  English. 
And  during  that  year  we  both  got  to  know  them,  possi- 
bly as  well  as  Lord  Whitby  himself.  Especially  ''Don 
Juan,"  in  which  we  grew  to  be  as  word-jierfect  as  in 
Pohjencle,  Le  Mimuthrope,  Athalic,  Philodete,  Le  Lutrin, 
the  iirst  six  books  of  the  ^Eneid  and  the  Iliad,  the  Ars 
l^octica,  and  the  AH  Poetique  (Boileau). 

Every  line  of  these  has  gone  out  of  my  head — long 
ago,  alas  !  But  I  could  still  stand  a  pretty  severe  exam- 
ination in  the  now  all-but-forgotten  English  epic — from 
Dan  to  Bcersheba — I  mean  from  "I  want  a  hero"  to 
**  The  phantom  of  her  frolic  grace,  Fitz-Fulke  !" 

Barty,  however,  remembered  everything  —  what  he 
ought  to,  and  what  he  ought  not !  lie  had  the  most 
astounding  memory  :  wax  to  receive  and  marble  to  re- 
tain ;  also  a  wonderful  facility  for  writing  verse,  mostly 
comic,  both  in  English  and  French.  Greek  and  Latin 
verso  were  not  taught  us  at  Brossard's,  for  good  French 
reasons,  into  which  I  will  not  enter  now. 

We  also  grew  very  fond  of  Lamartine  and  Victor  Hugo, 
quite  openly — and  of  De  Musset  under  the  rose. 

"C'etiiit  daus  la  nuit  bruue 
Sur  le  oloclier  jauni, 

La  luiie, 
Comme  \\i\  pohit  sia  con  i  !" 


(not  for  the  young  person). 


i 


J-- 


-V.V.. 

'  WEKL  MAY  TUE  KEKL   UOW  ' 


t  ) 


108 


I  have  a  vague  but  pleasant  impression  of  that  year. 
Its  weathers,  its  changing  seasons,  its  severe  frosts,  with 
Sunday  skatings  on  the  dangerous  canals,  St.-Ouen  and 
De  rOurcq;  its  genial  spring,  all  convolvulus  and  gob^as, 
and  early  almond  blossom  and  later  horse  -  chestnut 
spikes,  and  more  lime  and  syringa  than  ever ;  its  warm 
soft  summer  and  the  ever-delightful  school  of  natation 
by  the  Isle  of  Swans. 

This  particular  temptation  led  us  into  trouble.  We 
would  rise  before  dawn,  Barty  and  Jolivet  and  I,  and  let 
ourselves  over  the  ^'all  and  run  the  two  miles,  and  get  a 
heavenly  swim  and  a  promise  of  silence  for  a  franc 
apiece ;  and  run  back  again  and  jump  into  bed  a  few 
minutes  before  the  five-o^clook  bell  rang  the  reveille. 

But  we  did  tliis  once  too  often — for  M.  Duinollard  had 
been  looking  at  Venus  with  his  telescope  (I  think  it  was 
Venus)  one  morning  before  sunrise,  and  spied  us  out  en 
flagrant  delit ;  perhaps  with  that  very  telescope.  Any- 
how, he  pounced  on  us  when  we  came  back.  And  our 
punishment  would  have  been  extremely  harsh  but  for 
Barty,  who  turned  it  all  into  a  joke. 

After  breakfast  M.  Merovee  pronounced  a  very  severe 
sentence  on  us  under  the  r<cacia.  I  forget  what  it  was — 
but  his  manner  was  very  short  and  dignified,  and  he 
walked  away  very  stiffly  towards  the  door  of  the  etude. 
Barty  ran  after  him  without  noise,  and  just  touching  his 
shoulders  with  the  tips  of  his  fingers,  cleared  him  at  a 
bound  from  behind,  as  one  clears  a  post. 

M.  Merovee,  in  a  real  rage  this  time,  forgot  his  dignity, 
and  pursued  him  all  over  tlie  school — through  open  win- 
dows and  back  again — into  his  own  garden  (Tusculum) — 
over  trellis  railings — all  along  the  top  of  a  wall — and  fi.- 
nally,  quite  blown  out,  sat  down  on  the  edge  of  the  tank: 
the  whole  school  was  in  fits  by  this  time,  even  M.  Dumol- 


1G9 


lard — and  at  last  Merovee  began  to  laugh  too.  So  the 
thing  had  to  be  forgiven — but  only  that  once  ! 

Onod  also,  that  year,  but  in  the  winter,  a  great  com- 
pliment was  paid  to  la  perfide  Albion  in  the  persons  of 
MM.  Josselin  et  Maurice,  which  I  cannot  help  recording 
with  a  little  complacency. 

On  a  Thursday  walk  in  the  Bois  de  Boulogne  a  boy 
called  out  **  A  bus  DumoUard  !"  in  a  falsetto  squeak. 
Dumollard,  who  was  on  duty  that  walk,  was  furious,  of 
course— but  he  couldn't  identify  the  boy  by  the  sound  of 
his  voice.  He  made  his  complaint  to  M.  Merovee — and 
next  morning,  after  prayers,  Merovee  came  into  the 
school-room,  and  told  us  he  should  go  the  round  of  the 
boys  there  and  then,  and  ask  each  boy  separately  to  O'/n 
up  if  it  were  he  who  had  uttered  the  seditious  cry. 

"  And  mind  you  !"  he  said — "you  are  all  and  each  of 
you  on  your  'word  of  honor' — Vetude  entiere  /" 

So  round  he  went,  from  boy  to  boy,  deliberately  fixing 
each  boy  with  his  eye,  and  severely  asking — "  Est-ce  toif^ 
"Est-ce  toi?"  **  Est-ce  toif  etc.,  and  waiting  very  de- 
liberately indeed  for  the  answer,  and  even  asking  for  it 
again  if  it  were  not  given  in  a  firm  and  audible  voice. 
And  the  answer  was  always,  **Non,  m'sieur,  ce  n'est 
pas  moi !" 

But  when  he  came  to  each  of  us  (Josselin  and  me)  he 
just  mumbled  his  "Est-ce  toi  ?"  in  a  quite  perfunctory 
voice,  and  didn't  even  wait  for  the  answer  ! 

When  he  got  to  the  last  boy  of  all,  who  said  "Non, 
m'sieur,"  like  all  the  rest,  he  left  the  room,  saying,  trag- 
ically (and,  as  I  thought,  rather  theatrically  for  Idm) : 

"  Je  m'en  vais  le  coeur  navre — il  y  a  un  lache  parmi 
vous  !"  (My  heart  is  harrowed — there's  a  coward  among 
you.) 

There  was  an  awkward  silence  for  a  few  momenta. 


i 


no 


Presently  Rapaiid  got  up  and  went  out.  We  all  knew 
that  Ilapaud  was  the  delinquent — he  had  bragged  about 
it  so — overniglit  in  the  dormitory.  He  went  straight  to 
M.  Merovee  and  confessed,  stating  that  he  did  not  like  to 
be  put  on  his  word  of  honor  before  the  whole  school.  I 
forget  whetlier  he  was  punished  or  not,  or  how.  He  had 
to  make  his  apologies  to  M.  Dumollard,  of  course. 

To  put  the  whole  school  on  its  word  of  honor  was 
thought  a  very  severe  measure,  coming  as  it  did  froui  the 
head  master  in  person.  "La  parole  d'honneur''  was 
held  to  be  verv  sacred  between  bov  and  bov,  and  even  be- 
tween  boy  and  head  master.  The  boy  who  broke  it  was 
always  **mis  a  la  quarantaine  "  (sent  to  Coventry)  by  the 
rest  of  the  school. 

"  I  wonder  why  he  let  off  Josselin  and  Maurice  so 
easily  ?"  said  Jolivet,  at  breakfast. 

"  Parce  qu'il  aime  les  Anglais,  ma  foi !"  said  M.  Du-' 
mollard — "  affaire  de  gofit !" 

'*  Ma  foi,  il  n'a  pas  tort  !"  said  M.  Bonzig. 

Dumollard  looked  askance  at  Bonzig  (])etween  whom 
and  himself  not  much  love  was  lost)  and  walked  off, 
jauntily  twirling  his  mustache,  and  whistling  a  few  bars 
of  a  very  ungainly  melody,  to  which  the  words  ran  : 

"Non  !  jamais  en  Frauce, 
Jamais  Anglais  ne  regnera  !" 

As  if  we  wanted  to,  good  heavens  ! 

(By-the-way,  I  suddenly  remember  that  both  Berquin 
and  d'Orthez  were  let  off  as  easily  as  Josselin  and  I. 
But  they  were  eighteen  or  nineteen,  and  **en  Philoso- 
phic," the  highest  class  in  the  school — and  very  first-rate 
boys  indeed.     It's  only  fair  that  I  should  add  this.) 

By-the-way,  also,  M.  Dumollard  took  it  into  his  head 
to  persecute  me  because  once  I  refused  to  fetch  and 


Ill 


carry  for  him  and  be  his  "  moricaud,"  or  black  sUive  (as 
du  Tertre-Jouan  called  it):  a  mean  and  petty  persecu- 
tion which  lasted  two  years,  and  somewhat  embitters  my 
memory  of  those  happy  days.  It  was  always  "  Maurice 
au  piquet  pour  une  lieure  I"  .  .  ''  ^faurice  a  la  retenue  I" 
.  .  "Maurice  prive  de  bain  !"  .  .  *•  ^Faurice  consignc  di- 
manche  prochain  I"  .  .  .  for  the  slightest  jiossible  of- 
fence.    But  I  forgive  him  freely.' 

First,  because  he  is  probably  dead,  and  "de  mortibus 
nil  desperandum  !"'  as  llapaud  once  said— and  for  saying 
which  he  received  a  "twisted  pinch"  from  Merovee 
Brossard  himself. 

Secondly,  because  he  made  chemistry,  cosmography, 
and  physics  so  pleasant — and  even  reconciled  me  at  last 
to  the  diiferential  and  integral  calculus  (but  never  Barty !). 

He  could  be  rather  snobbish  at  times,  which  was  not 
a  common  French  fault  in  the  forties — we  didn't  even 
know  what  to  call  it. 

For  instance,  he  was  fond  of  bragging  to  us  boys 
about  the  golden  splendors  of  his  Sunday  dissipation, 
and  his  grand  acquaintances,  even  in  class.  He  would 
even  interrupt  himself  in  the  middle  of  an  equation  at 
the  blackboard  to  do  so. 

"  You  mustn't  imagine  to  yourselves,  messieurs,  that 
because  I  teach  you  boys  science  at  the  Pension  J^ros- 
sard,  and  take  you  out  walking  on  Thursday  afternoons, 
and  all  that,  that  I  do  not  associate  arcc  des  f/oifi  du 
monde!  Last  night,  for  example,  I  was  dining  at  the 
Cafe  de  Paris  with  a  very  intimate  friend  of  niiue — he's 
a  marquis — and  when  the  bill  was  brought,  what  do  you 
think  it  came  to  ?  you  give  it  up  ?"  (vous  donnez  votre 
langue  aux  chats?).  "Well,  it  came  to  fifty -seven 
francs,  fifty  centimes !  We  tossed  up  who  should  pay — 
et,  ma  foi,  le  sort  a  favorise  M.  le  Marquis !" 


f 


112 


To  this  there  was  nothing  to  say ;  so  none  of  us  said 
anything,  except  du  Tertre-Jouan,  our  marquis  (No.  2), 
who  said,  in  his  sulky,  insolent,  peasantlike  manner  : 

**  Et  comment  q'pa  s'appelle,  vot'  marquis  ?"  (What 
does  it  call  itseif,  your  marquis  ?) 

*'Upon  which  M.  DumoUard  turns  very  red  ("pique 
nn  soleil "),  and  says  : 

"Monsieur  le  Marquis  Paul  —  Frangois  —  Victor  du 
Tertre-Jcian  de  Haultcastel  de  St.-Paterne,  vous  etes 
un  paltoquet  et  wn  ruscre  !  .  .  ." 

And  goes  back  to  his  equations. 

Du  Tertre-Jouan  was  nearly  six  feet  high,  and  afraid 
of  nobody — a  kind  of  clodhopping  young  rustic  Hercu- 
les, and  had  proved  his  mettle  quite  recently — when  a 
brutal  usher,  whom  I  will  call  Monsieur  Boulot  (though 
his  real  name  was  Patachou),  a  Meridional  with  a  horri- 
ble divergent  squint,  made  poor  Rapaud  go  down  on  his 
knees  in  the  classe  de  geographie  ancienne,  and  slapped 
him  violently  on  the  face  twice  running — a  way  he  had 
with  Rapaud. 

It  happened  like  this.  It  was  a  kind  of  penitential 
class  for  dunces  during  pUiy-time.  M.  Boulot  drew  in 
clalk  an  outline  of  ancient  Greece  on  the  blackboard, 
and  under  it  he  wrote — 


"Tiiiieo  Danaos,  et  dona  ferentes  I" 

"Rapaud,  translate  me  that  line  of  Virgil !"  says  Boulot. 

"  J'estime  les  Danois  et  leurs  dents  de  fer  !"  says  poor 
Rapaud  (I  esteem  the  Danish  and  their  iron  teeth).  And 
we  all  laughed.  For  which  he  underwent  the  brutal 
slapping. 

The  window  was  ajar,  and  outside  I  saw  du  Tertre- 
Jouan,  Jolivet,  and  Berquin,  listening  and  peeping 
through.     Suddenly  the  window  bursts  wide  open,  and 


*i!n»!:i:'issi;iii|!i 


►/ 
«■ 


A.  TEUTUE-JOUAN  TO  THE   UKSCUE 


114 


du  Tertre-Jouan  vaults  the  sill,  gets  between  Boulot  and 
his  victim,  and  says : 

'*  Le  troisi^nie  coup  fait  feu,  vous  savez  !  touohez-y 
encore,  a  ce  moutard,  et  j'vous  assoniine  sui  place  !" 
(Touch  him  again,  that  kid,  and  I'll  break  your  head 
where  you  stand !). 

There  was  an  awful  row,  of  course  —  and  du  Tertre- 
Jouan  had  to  make  a  public  apology  to  M.  Boulot,  who 
disappeared  from  the  scliool  the  very  same  day;  and 
Tertre-Jouan  would  luive  been  canonized  by  us  all,  but 
that  he  was  so  deplorably  dull  and  narrow-minded,  and 
suspected  of  being  a  royalist  in  disguise.  lie  was  an 
orphan  and  very  rich,  and  didn't  fash  himself  about 
examinations,  lie  left  school  that  year  without  tak- 
iiig  any  degree  —  and  I  don't  know  what  became  of 
him. 

This  year  also  Barty  conceived  a  tender  passion  for 
Mile.  ^Farceliiie. 

It  was  after  the  mumps,  which  Ave  both  had  together 
in  a  double-bedded  infirmerie  next  to  tlie  lingerie — a  place 
where  it  was  a  pleasure  to  be  ill ;  for  she  was  in  and  out  all 
day,  and  told  us  all  that  was  going  on,  and  gave  us  nice 
drini-cs  and  tisaiies  of  her  own  making — and  laughed  at 
all  Barty 's  jokes,  and  some  of  mine  !  and  wore  the  most 
coquettish  caps  ever  seen. 

Besides,  she  was  an  uncommonly  good-looking  woman 
— a  tall  blonde  with  beautiful  teeth,  and  woiulerfully 
genial,  good-humored,  and  lively — an  ideal  nurse,  but  a 
terrible  postpouer  of  cures  !  Lord  Archibald  quite  fell 
in  love  with  her. 

**0'est  moi  qui  voudrais  bien  avoir  les  oreilions  ici  !" 
he  said  to  her.  **  Je  retarderais  ma  convalescence  autant 
que  possible  !" 

"  Comme  il  salt  bien  le  fran^ais,  votre  oncle — et  comme 


r 
V 

E 


MADEMUIHELLE    MAUCKLINK 


116 


il  est  poll  I"  said  Marceline  to  the  convalescent  Barty, 
who  was  in  no  hurry  to  get  well  either  ! 

When  we  did  get  well  again,  Burty  would  spend  much 
of  his  play-time  fetching  and  carrying  for  Mile.  Marce- 
line— even  getting  Dumollard's  socks  for  her  to  darn — 
and  talking  to  her  by  the  hour  as  he  sat  by  her  pleasant 
window,  out  of  which  one  could  see  the  Arch  of  Triumph, 
which  so  triumphantly  dominated  Paris  and  its  sub- 
urbs, and  does  so  still — no  Eilfel  Tower  can  kill  that 
arch  ! 

I,  being  less  precocious,  did  not  begin  my  passion  for 
Mile.  Marceline  till  next  year,  just  as  Bonneville  and 
Jolivet  trois  were  getting  over  theirs.  Xous  avons  tons 
passe  par  li\ ! 

What  a  fresh  and  kind  and  jolly  woman  she  was,  to  be 
sure  !  1  wonder  none  of  the  masters  married  her.  Per- 
haps they  did  !     Let  us  hope  it  wasn't  M.  Dumolhird  ! 

It  is  such  a  pleasure  to  recall  every  incident  of  this 
epoch  of  my  life  and  Barty's  that  I  should  like  to  go 
through  our  joint  lives  day  by  day,  hour  by  hour,  micro- 
scopically— to  describe  every  book  we  read,  every  game 
we  played,  ev{}Yy pensmn  {i.e.,  imposition)  we  performed; 
every  lark  we  were  punished  for — every  meal  we  ate. 
But  space  forbids  this  self-indulgence,  and  other  con- 
siderations nuike  it  unadvisable — so  I  will  resist  the  temp- 
tation. 

La  pension  Brossard  !  How  often  have  we  both  talked 
of  it,  Barty  and  I,  as  middle-aged  men  ;  in  the  billiard- 
room  of  the  Marathoneum,  let  us  say,  sitting  together  on 
a  comfortable  couch,  with  tea  and  cigarettes — and  always 
in  French  whispers  !  we  could  only  talk  of  Brossard's  in 
French. 

^*Terappelles-tu  riiabit  neuf  de  Berquin,  et  sou  cha- 
peau  haute-forme  ?*' 


•    'IF  HE  ONLY   KNKW  I' 


118 


"  Te  soiiviens-tu  de  la  vieille  chatte  angora  du  p^re 
Jaurion  T'  etc.,  etc.,  etc. 

Idiotic  reminiscences  !  as  charming  to  revive  as  any 
old  song  with  words  of  little  meaning  that  meant  so 
much  when  one  was  four — five— six  years  old  I  before 
one  knew  even  how  to  spell  them  ! 

"Paille  k  Dine— paille  ft  Chine — 
Paille  3,  Suzette  et  Marline — 
Bod  lit  A  la  Dumaine  !" 

Celine,  my  nurse,  used  to  sing  this — and  I  never  knew 
what  it  meant ;  nor  do  I  now  !  But  it  was  charming 
indeed. 

Even  now  I  dream  that  I  go  back  to  school,  to  get 
coached  by  Dumollard  in  a  little  more  algebra.  1  wander 
about  the  playground ;  but  all  the  boys  are  new,  and  don't 
even  know  my  name  *  and  silent,  sad,  and  ugly,  every 
one !  Again  Dumollard  persecutes  me.  And  in  the 
middle  of  it  I  reflect  that,  after  all,  he  is  a  person  of  no 
importance  wliatever,  and  that  I  am  a  member  of  tlie 
British  Parliament — a  baronet — a  millionaire — and  one 
of  her  Majesty's  Privy  Councillors  !  and  that  M.  Dumol- 
lard must  be  singuhirly  **out  of  it,"  even  for  a  French- 
man, not  to  be  aware  of  this. 

"  If  he  only  knew  I"  says  I  to  myself,  says  I — in  my 
dream. 

Besides,  can't  the  man  see  with  his  own  eves  that  I'm 
grown  up,  and  big  enough  to  tuck  him  under  my  left 
arm,  and  spank  him  just  as  if  he  were  a  little  naughty 
boy — confound  the  brute  I 

Then,  suddenly : 

"  Maurice,  au  piquet  pour  une  heure  I' 

"  Moi,  m'sieur  'i" 

"Qui,  vousl" 


t" 


119 


*'  Pourquoi,  m'sieur  V 

**  Parce  que  ga  me  plait  !" 

And  I  wake — and  could  almost  weep  to  find  how  old 
I  am  ! 

And  Barty  Josselin  is  no  more — oh  !  my  God  I  .  .  .  . 
and  his  dear  wife  survived  him  just  twenty-four  hours  I 


Behold  us  both  "  en  Philosophie  V 

And  Barty  the  head  boy  of  the  school,  though  not 
the  oldest — and  the  brilliant  show-boy  of  the  class. 

Just  before  Easter  (1851)  he  and  I  and  R:ipaud  and 
Laferte  and  Jolivet  trois  (who  was  nineteen)  and  Palai- 
seau  and  Bussy-Rabutin  Avent  up  for  our  ''bachot"  at 
the  Sorbonne. 

We  sat  in  a  kind  of  big  musty  school-room  with  about 
thirty  other  boys  from  other  schools  and  colleges.  There 
we  sat  side  by  side  from  ten  till  twelve  at  long  desks, 
and  had  a  long  piece  of  Latin  dictated  to  us,  with  the 
punctuation  in  French  :  ''un  point — point  et  virgule — 
deux  points — point  d'exclamation — guillemets — ouvrez 
la  parenthese,"  etc.,  etc. — monotonous  details  that  ener- 
vate one  at  such  a  moment ! 

Then  we  set  to  work  with  our  dictionaries  and  wrote 
out  a  translation  according  to  our  lights — i\ pion  walking 
about  and  watching  us  narrowly  for  cribs,  in  case  wo 
should  happen  to  have  one  for  this  particular  extract, 
which  was  most  unlikely. 

l^artv's  nose  bled,  1  remember — and  this  made  him 
nervous. 

Then  we  went  and  lunched  at  the  Cafe  do  I'Odeon, 
on  the  best  omelet  we  had  ever  tasted. 

"Te  rappelles-tu  cettij  omelette?"  said  poor  Barty  to 
me  only  last  Christmas  as  ever  wp-j  I 

Then  we  went  back  with  our  hearts  in  our  mouths  to 


120 


find  if  we  had  qualified  ourselves  by  our  "  version  ecrite" 
for  the  oral  examination  that  comes  after,  and  which  is 
so  easy  to  pass — the  examiners  having  lunched  them- 
selves into  good-nature. 

There  we  stood  panting,  some  fifty  boys  and  masters, 
in  a  small,  whitewashed  room  like  a  prison.  An  official 
comes  in  and  puts  the  list  of  candidates  in  a  frame  on 
the  wall,  and  we  crane  our  necks  over  each  other's 
shoulders. 

And,  lo  !  Barty  is  plucked — coUe  !  and  /  have  passed, 
and  actually  Rapaud — and  no  one  else  from  Brossard's  ! 

An  old  man — a  parent  or  grandparent  probably  of 
some  unsuccessful  candidate — bursts  into  tears  and  ex- 
claims, 

**01i !  que  malheur — que  malheur!" 

A  shabby,  tall,  pallid  youth,  in  the  uniform  of  the 
College  Ste.-Barbe,  rushes  down  the  stone  stairs  shriek- 
ing. 

"  ^a  pue  Finjustice,  ici !" 

One  hears  him  all  over  the  place  :  terrible  heartburns 
and  tragic  disai)pointments  in  the  beginning  of  life  re- 
sulted from  failure  in  this  first  step — a  failure  which 
disqualified  one  for  all  the  little  government  appoint- 
ments so  dear  to  the  heart  of  the  frugal  French  parent. 
"Mille  francs  par  an  !  c'est  le  Pactole  !" 


\ 


Barty  took  his  defeat  pretty  easily — he  put  it  all  down 
to  his  nose  bleeding — and  seemed  so  pleased  at  my  suc- 
cess, and  my  dear  mother's  delight  in  it,  that  he  was 
soon  quite  consoled ;  he  was  always  like  that. 

To  M.  Merovee,  Barty's  failure  was  as  great  a  disap- 
pointment as  it  was  a  painful  surprise. 

*'Try  again,  Josselin  !  Don't  leave  here  till  you  have 
passed.     If  you  arc  cpnteut  tg  fail  iu  this,  at  the  very 


MAURICE  AU   PIQUET  1' 


122 


outset  of  your  career,  you  will  never  succeed  in  anything 
through  life  !  Stay  with  us  as  my  guest  till  you  can  go 
up  again,  and  again  if  necessary.  Do,  my  dear  child — 
it  will  make  me  so  happy  !  I  shall  feel  it  as  a  proof  that 
you  reciprocate  in  some  degree  the  warm  friendship  I 
have  always  borne  you — in  common  with  everybody  in 
the  school !     Je  t'en  prie,  mon  gar9on  V 

Then  he  went  to  the  Rohans  and  tried  to  persuade 
them.  But  Lord  Archibald  didn't  care  much  about 
Bachots,  nor  his  wife  either.  They  were  going  back  to 
live  in  England,  besidos ;  and  Barty  was  going  into  the 
Guards. 

I  left  school  also — with  a  mixture  of  hope  and  elation, 
and  yet  the  most  poignant  regret. 

I  can  hardly  find  words  to  express  the  gratitude  and 
affection  I  felt  for  Merovee  Brossard  when  I  bade  him 
farewell. 

Except  his  father  before  him,  he  was  the  best  and 
finest  Frenchman  I  ever  knew.  There  is  nothing  in- 
vidious in  my  saying  this,  and  in  this  way.  I  merely 
speak  of  the  Brossurds,  father  and  son,  as  Frenchmen  in 
this  connection,  because  their  admirable  qualities  of 
heart  and  mind  were  so  essentially  French  ;  they  would 
have  done  equal  honor  to  any  country  in  the  world. 

I  corresponded  with  him  regularly  for  a  few  years,  and 
so  did  Barty ;  and  then  our  letters  grew  fewer  and  far- 
ther between,  and  finally  left  off  altogether — as  nearly 
always  happens  in  such  cases,  I  think.  And  I  never  saw 
him  again  ;  for  wlimi  he  broke  up  the  school  he  went 
to  his  own  province  in  the  southeast,  and  lived  there 
till  twenty  years  ago,  when  he  died — unmarried,  I  be- 
lieve. 

Then  there  was  Monsieur  Bonzig,  and  Mile.  Marceline, 
and  others  —  and  three  or  four  boys  with  whom  both 


138 


Barty  and  I  were  on  terms  of  warm  and  intimate  friend- 
ship. None  of  these  boys  that  I  know  of  have  risen  to 
any  world-wide  fame  ;  and,  oddly  enough,  none  of  them 
have  ever  given  sign  of  life  to  Barty  Josselin,  who  is  just 
as  famous  in  France  for  his  French  literary  work  as  on 
this  side  of  the  Channel  for  all  he  has  done  in  English. 
He  towers  just  as  mnch  there  as  here  ;  and  this  double 
eminence  now  dominates  the  entire  globe,  and  we  are 
beginning  at  last  to  realize  everywhere  that  this  bright 
luminary  in  our  firmament  is  no  planet,  like  Mars  or 
Jupiter,  but,  like  Sirius,  a  sun. 

Yet  never  a  line  from  an  old  comrade  in  that  school 
where  he  lived  for  four  years  and  was  so  strangely  pop- 
ular— and  which  he  so  filled  with  his  extraordinary  per- 
sonality ! 


So  much  for  Barty  Josselin's  school  life  and  mine.  I 
fear  I  may  have  dwelt  on  them  at  too  great  a  length. 
No  period  of  time  has  ever  been  for  me  so  bi-ight  and 
happy  as  those  seven  years  I  spent  at  the  Institution 
F.  Brossard — especially  the  four  years  I  spent  there  with 
Barty  Josselin.  The  older  I  get,  the  more  I  love  to  re- 
call the  trivial  little  incidents  that  made  for  us  both  the 
sum  of  existence  in  those  happy  days. 

La  chasse  aux  souvenirs  d'enfance !  what  better  sport 
can  there  be,  or  more  bloodless,  at  my  time  of  life  ? 

And  all  the  lonely  pathetic  pains  and  pleasures  of  it, 
now  that  he  is  gone  ! 

The  winter  twilight  has  just  set  in — "betwixt  dog  and 
wolf."  I  wander  alone  (but  for  Barty 's  old  mastiff,  who 
follows  me  willy-nilly)  in  the  woods  and  hmes  that  sur- 
round Marsfield  on  the  Thames,  the  picturesque  abode 
of  the  Josselins. 

Darker  and  darker  it  grows     I  no  longer  make  out  the 


124 


familiar  trees  and  hedges,  and  forget  how  cold  it  is  and 
how  dreary. 

"Je  marclierai  les  yeux  fixes  snr  nics  ponsees, 

Sans  rien  voir  au  dehors,  sans  entendre  aucun  bruit — 
Seul,  inconnu,  le  dos  courhe,  les  mains  croisees  : 
Triste — et  le  jour  pour  moi  sera  conime  la  nuit." 

(This  is  Victor  Hugo,  not  Barty  Josselin.) 

It's  really  far  away  I  am — across  thy  sea ;  across  the 
years,  0  Posthumus !  in  a  sunny  play-ground  that  has 
been  built  over  long  ago,  or  overgrown  with  lawns  and 
flower-beds  and  costly  shrubs. 

Up  rises  some  vague  little  rudiment  of  a  hint  of  a  ghost 
of  a  sunny,  funny  old  French  remembrance  long  forgot- 
ten— a  brand-new  old  remembrance — a  kind  of  will-o'- 
the-wisp.  Chut !  my  soul  stalks  it  on  tiptoe,  while  these 
earthly  legs  bear  this  poor  old  body  of  clay,  by  mere  re- 
flex action,  straight  home  to  the  beautiful  Elisabethan 
house  on  the  hill ;  through  the  great  warm  hall,  up  the 
broad  oak  stairs,  into  the  big  cheerful  music-room  like  a 
studio — ruddy  and  bright  with  the  huge  log-fire  opposite 
the  large  window.  All  is  on  an  ample  scale  at  Marsfield, 
people  and  tlnngs  !  and  I !  sixteen  stone,  good  Lord  ! 

How  often  that  window  has  been  my  beacon  on  dark 
nights !  I  used  to  watch  for  it  from  the  train — a  land- 
mark in  a  land  of  milk  and  honey — the  kinrlliest  light 
that  ever  led  me  yet  on  earth. 

I  sit  me  down  in  my  own  particular  chimney-corner, 
in  my  own  cane-bottomed  chair  by  the  fender,  and  stare 
at  the  blaze  with  my  friend  the  mastiff.  An  old  war- 
battered  tomcat  Barty  was  fond  of  jumps  up  and  makes 
friends  too.  There  goes  my  funny  little  French  remem- 
brance, trying  to  fly  up  the  claimney  like  a  burnt  love- 
letter.  .  .  , 


125 


Burty's  eldest  daughter  (Roberta),  a  stately,  tall  Hebe 
in  black,  brings  me  a  very  sizable  cup  of  tea,  just  as  I 
like  it.  A  well-grown  little  son  of  hers,  a  very  Gany- 
mede, beau  comme  le  jour,  brings  me  a  cigarette,  and  in- 
sists on  ligl»ting  it  for  me  himself.     I  like  that  too. 

Another  daughter  of  Barty's,  'Ma  ros.signolle,"  as  we 
call  her — though  tiiere  is  no  such  word  that  I  know  of — 
goes  to  the  piano  and  sings  little  French  songs  of  forty, 
fifty  years  ago  —  songs  tiiat  she  has  learnt  from  her  dear 
papa. 

Heavens  !  what  a  voice  !  and  how  like  his,  but  for  tiie 
difference  of  sex  and  her  long  and  careful  training  (which 
he  never  had) ;  and  the  accent,  iiow  perfect ! 

Then  suddenly  : 

"  X  Saint-Blaizp,  h  la  Zuecca  .  .  . 
V«)us  elii'Z,  vous  eliez  bien  aise  I 
X  Sainl-Blaizc,  a,  la  Zuecca  .  .  . 
Nous  elioiis,  nous  elions  bieu  1^  ! 
Mais  de  vous  en  souvenir 
Prendrez-vous  la  peine  ? 
Mais  de  vous  en  souvenir, 
Et  d'y  rcvenir  ? 
X  Saiut-Blaize,  a  la  Zuecca  ,  .  . 
Vivre  et  mourir  la  !" 


H 


So  sings  Mrs.  Trevor  (Mary  Josselin  that  was)  in  the 
richest,  sweetest  voice  I  know.  And  behold  !  at  last  I 
have  caught  my  little  French  remembrance,  just  as  the 
lamps  are  being  lit — and  I  transfix  it  Avith  my  pen  and 
write  it  down  .  .  . 

And  then  with  a  sigh  I  scratch  it  all  out  again,  sunny 
and  funny  as  it  is.  For  it's  all  about  a  comical  advent- 
ure I  had  with  Palaiseau,  the  sniffer  at  the  fete  de  8t.- 
Cloud  —  all  about  a  tame  magpie,  a  gendarme,  a  blan- 
chisseuse,  and  a  volume  of  de  Musset's  poems,  and  doesn't 


126 


concern  Barty  in  the  least  ;    for  it  so  happened   that 
Bartv  wasn't  there  ! 


Thus,  in  the  summer  of  1851,  Barty  Josselin  and  I 
hade  adieu  forever  to  our  happy  scliool  life — and  for  a 
few  years  to  our  beloved  Paris — and  for  many  years  to 
our  close  intimacy  of  every  hour  in  the  day. 

I  remember  spending  two  or  three  afternoons  with  him 
at  tlie  ffreat  exhibition  in  Hvde  Park  iust  before  he  went 
on  a  visit  to  liis  grandfather,  Lord  Whitby,  in  Yorkshire 
— and  happy  afternoons  they  were  !  and  we  made  the 
most  of  them.  We  saw  all  there  was  to  be  seen  there,  I 
think  :  and  found  ourselves  always  drifting  l)ack  to  tlie 
** Amazon"  and  the  "Greek  Slave,"  for  botli  of  which 
Barty's  admiration  was  boundless. 

And  so  was  mine.  They  made  the  female  fashions  for 
1851  quite  deplorable  by  contrast — especially  the  shoes, 
and  the  way  of  dressing  the  hair  ;  we  almost  came  to 
the  conclusion  that  female  beauty  when  unadorned  is 
adorned  the  most.  It  awes  and  chastens  one  so  !  and 
wakes  up  the  knight-errant  inside  !  even  the  smartest 
French  boots  can't  do  this  I  not  tiie  pinkest  silken  hose 
in  all  Paris  !  not  all  the  frills  and  underfrills  and  won- 
derf rills  that  M.  Paul  Bourget  can  so  eloquently  de- 
scribe ! 

My  father  had  taken  a  house  for  ua  in  Brunswick 
Square,  next  to  the  Foundling  Hospital.  lie  was  about 
to  start  an  English  branch  of  the  Vougeot-Conti  firm  in 
the  City.  I  will  not  trouble  the  reader  with  any  details 
about  this  enterprise,  which  presented  many  difficulties 
at  first,  and  indeed  rather  crippled  our  r-iCi-iis. 

My  mother  was  anxious  tiuit  I  should  go  to  one  of  the 
universities,  Oxford  or  Cambridge  ;  but  this  my  father 
could  not  afi'ord.     She  had  a  great  dislike  to  business — 


t 


■qilANI)  ON   I'FUI),  PAU  'IKISTK  Ocrl'KKKNCK, 
,S()N   KSI'KUANCK, 

KT  s\  oa'h'k. 

LK  KKMfcDK  All   MKLAM'OI.Uil'K 
O'KST  t,A  Mouiric 
ET  LA  IIKAUTK" 


128 


and  so  had  I ;  from  different  motives,  I  fancy.  I  had 
the  wish  to  become  a  man  of  science — a  passion  that  had 
been  fired  by  M.  Dumolhird,  whose  special  chemistry  class 
at  the  Pension  Brossard,  with  its  attractive  experiments, 
had  been  of  the  deepest  interest  to  me.  I  have  not  de- 
scribed it  because  Barty  did  not  come  in. 

Fortunately  for  my  desire,  my  good  father  had  great 
sympathy  with  me  in  this  ;  so  I  was  entered  as  a  student 
at  the  Laboratory  of  Chemistry  at  University  College, 
close  by — in  October,  1851 — and  studied  there  for  two 
years,  instead  of  going  at  once  into  my  father's  business 
in  Barge  Yard,  Bucklersbury,  which  would  have  pleased 
him  even  more. 

At  about  the  same  time  Barty  was  presented  with  a 
commission  in  the  Second  Battalion  of  the  Grenadier 
Guards,  and  joined  immediately. 

Nothing  could  have  been  more  widely  apart  than  the 
lives  we  led,  or  the  society  we  severally  frequented. 

I  lived  at  home  with  my  people  ;  he  in  rooms  on  a  sec- 
ond floor  in  St.  James's  Street;  he  had  a  semi -grand 
piano,  and  luxurious  furniture,  and  bookcases  already 
well  filled,  and  nicely  colored  lithograph  engravii.ur  on 
the  walls  —  beautiful  female  faces  —  the  gift  of  Lid.' 
Archibald,  who  had  superintended  liarty's  instalhuioii 
with  kindly  maternal  interest,  but  little  ai)preciation  of 
high  art.  There  were  also  foils,  boxing-gloves,  dumb- 
bells, and  Indian  clubs  ;  and  many  weapons,  ancient  and 
modern,  belonging  more  es})ecially  to  his  own  martial 
profession.  They  were  most  enviable  quarters.  But  he 
often  came  to  see  us  in  livunswick  Square,  and  dined 
with  us  once  or  twice  a  week,  and  was  made  much  of — 
even  by  my  father,  who  thoroughly  disapproved  of  every- 
tliing  about  him  except  his  own  genial  and  agreeable 
self,  which  hadn't  altered  in  the  least. 


129 


My  father  was  much  away — in  Paris  and  Dijon — and 
Barty  made  rain  and  fine  weather  in  our  dull  ahode,  to 
use  a  French  expression — il  y  faimit  la  plnie  et  le  beau 
temps.  That  is,  it  rained  there  when  he  was  away,  and 
he  brought  the  fine  weather  with  him  ;  and  we  spoke 
French  all  round. 

-  The  greatest  pleasure  I  could  have  was  to  breakfast 
with  Barty  in  St.  James's  Street  on  Sunday  mornings, 
when  he  was  not  serving  his  Queen  and  country — either 
alone  with  him  or  with  two  or  three  of  his  friends — mostly 
young  carpet  warriors  like  himself ;  and  very  charming 
young  fellows  they  were.  I  have  always  been  fond  of 
warriors,  young  or  old,  and  of  whatever  rank,  and  wish 
to  goodness  I  had  been  a  warrior  myself.  I  feel  sure  I 
should  have  made  a  fairly  good  one  ! 

Then  we  would  spend  an  hour  or  two  in  athletic  exer- 
cises and  smoke  many  pipes.  And  after  tliis,  in  the 
summer,  we  would  walk  in  Kensiugton  Gardens  and 
see  the  Rank  and  Fashion.  In  those  davs  the  Kank  and 
Fashion  were  not  above  showing  themselves  in  the  Ken- 
sington Gardens  of  a  Sunday  afternoon,  crossing  the 
Serpentine  Bridge  again  and  again  between  Prince's  Gate 
and  Bayswater. 

Then  for  dinner  we  went  to  some  pleasant  foreign  pot- 
house in  or  near  Leicester  S(iuare,  where  they  spoke 
French — and  ate  and  drank  it! — and  then  hack  again 
to  his  rooms.  Sometiuies  we  would  be  alone,  whiijh  I 
liked  best :  we  would  read  and  smoke  and  be  hai>py ;  or 
he  would  sketch,  or  pick  out  accompaniments  on  his 
guitar;  often  not  exchaiigiug  a  word,  but  with  a  dt^light- 
ful  sense  of  close  companionship  which  silence  almost  in- 
tensified. 

Sometimes  we  were  in  very  jolly  company  :  more  war- 
riors ;  young  liobson,  the  actor  wiio  became  so  famous ; 


t 


130 


a  big  negro  pugilist,  called  Snowdrop ;  two  medical  stu- 
dents from  St.  George's  Hospital,  who  boxed  well  and 
were  capital  fellows ;  and  an  academy  art  student,  who 
died  a  Royal  Academician,  and  who  did  not  approve  of 
Barty's  mural  decorations  and  laughed  at  the  colored 
litl'ograplis  ;  and  many  others  of  all  sorts.  There  used 
to  be  much  turf  tallv,  and  sometimes  a  little  card-play- 
ing and  mild  gambling  —  but  Barty's  tastes  did  not  lie 
that  wav. 

His  idea  of  a  pleasant  evening  was  putting  on  the 
gloves  with  Snowdrop,  or  any  one  else  who  chose  —  or 
fencing  —  or  else  making  music  ;  or  being  funny  in  any 
way  one  could  ;  and  for  this  he  'lad  quite  a  special  gift : 
he  had  sudden  droll  inspirations  that  made  one  absolute- 
ly hysterical — mere  things  of  suggestive  look  or  sound 
or  gesture,  reminding  one  of  Kobson  himself,  but  <j[uite 
original ;  absolute  senseless  rot  and  drivel,  but  still  it 
made  v>ne  laugh  till  one's  sides  ached.  And  he  never 
failed  of  success  in  achie^nng  this. 

Among  the  dullest  and  gravest  of  c,"-}^  nnd  even  some  of 
the  most  high-minded,  there  is  often  a  latent  longing  for 
this  kind  of  happy  idiotic  fooling,  and  a  grateful  fond- 
ness for  those  who  can  supply  it  without  effort  and  who 
delight  in  doing  so.  Barty  was  the  precursor  of  the 
Arthur  Robertses  and  Fred  Leslies  and  Dan  Lonos  of  our 
day,  although  he  developed  in  quite  another  direction  ! 

Then  of  a  sudden  he  would  sing  some  little  twopenny 
love-ballad  or  sentimental  nigger  melody  so  touchingly 
that  one  had  the  lump  in  the  throat ;  poor  Snowdrop 
would  weep  by  spoonfuls  I 

By-the-way,  it  suddenly  occurs  to  me  that  I'm  mixing 
things  up — confusing  Sundays  and  week-days  ;  of  course 
our  Sunday  evenings  were  quiet  and  respectable,  and  I 
much  preferred  them  when  he  and  I  were  alone ;  he  was 


131 


then  another  person  altogether — a  thouglitf  ul  and  intelli- 
gent young  Frenchman,  who  loved  reading  poetry  aloud 
or  being  read  to  :  especially  English  poetry — Byron  !  He 
was  faithful  to  his  *'  Don  Juan,"  his  Hebrew  niehxlies — 
his  "  O'er  the  glad  waters  of  the  deep  blue  sea."'  We  knew 
them  all  by  heart,  or  nearly  so,  and  yet  we  read  them 
still  :  and  Victor  Hugo  and  Lamartine,  and  dear  Alfred 
de  Musset.   .   .   . 

And  one  day  1  discovered  another  Alfred  who  wrote 
verses — iVlfred  the  Gireat,  as  we  called  him — one  Alfred 
Tennyson,  who  had  written  a  certain  poem,  among 
others,  called  "In  Memoriam  " — which  I  carried  oft*  to 
Barty's  and  read  out  aloud  one  wet  Sunday  evening, 
and  the  Sunday  evening  after,  and  other  Sunday  even- 
ings ;  and  other  poems  by  the  sanii  hand:  ^'Locksley 
Hall,"  "Ulysses,"  "The  Lotos-Eaters,"  "The  Lady  of 
Shalott '" — and  the  chord  of  Byron  passed  in  music  out 
of  sight. 

Then  Shelley  dawned  upon  us,  and  John  Keats,  and 
Wordsworth — and  our  Sunday  evenings  were  of  a  happi- 
ness to  be  remembered  forever ;  at  least  they  were  so  to 
me  ! 

If  Barty  Josselin  were  on  duty  on  the  Sabbath,  it  was 
a  blank  day  for  Bobert  Maurice.  For  it  was  not  very 
lively  at  home — especially  when  my  father  was  there. 
lie  was  the  best  and  kindest  man  that  ever  lived,  but  his 
businesslike  seriousness  about  this  world,  and  his  anxie- 
ty about  the  next,  and  his  Scotch  Sabbatnrianism,  were 
deadly  depressing  ;  combine(l  with  the  aspect  of  London 
on  the  Lord's  day — Loiulon  east  of  Russell  Scpiare  1  Oh, 
Paris  .  .  Paris  .  .  .  and  the  yellow  omnibus  that  took 
us  both  there  together,  Barty  and  mo,  at  eight  on  a  Sun- 
day morning  in  May  or  Juiu',  and  didn't  bring  us  buck 
to  school  till  fourteen  hours  later  1 


4 


132 


I  shall  never  forget  one  gloomy  wintry  Sunday — some- 
where in  1854  or  5,  if  I'm  not  mistaken,  towards  the  end 
of  Barty's  career  as  a  Guardsman. 

Twice  Jifter  lunch  I  had  called  at  Barty's,  who  was  to 
have  been  on  duty  in  barracks  or  at  the  Tower  tliat  morn- 
ing :  he  had  not  come  back  ;  I  called  for  him  at  his  club, 
but  he  hadn't  been  there  either — and  I  turned  my  face 
eastward  aiul  liomeward  with  a  sickening  sense  of  des- 
olate ennui  and  deei)  disgust  of  London  for  which  I 
could  fiiul  no  terms  that  are  fit  for  publication  ! 

And  this  was  not  lessened  by  the  bitter  reproaches  I 
made  myself  for  being  such  a  selfish  and  unworthy  son 
and  brother.  It  was  precious  dull  at  home  for  my  mother 
and  sister — and  my  place  was  there. 

They  were  just  lighting  the  lamps  as  I  got  to  the  arcade 
in  the  Quadrant — and  there  I  ran  against  the  cheerful 
Barty.  Joy  !  what  a  change  in  the  aspect  of  everything ! 
It  rained  light !  lie  pulled  a  new  book  out  of  his  pocket, 
which  he  had  just  borrowed  from  some  fair  Udy — and 
showed  it  to  me.     It  was  called  Maud. 

Wo  dined  at  Pergolese's,  in  Rupert  Street — and  went 
back  to  Barty's — and  read  tije  lovely  poem  out  loud,  tak- 
ing it  by  turns  ;  and  that  is  the  most  delightful  recollec- 
tion I  have  since  I  left  the  Institution  F.  Brossard! 

Occasionally  I  dined  with  him  **on  guard"  at  St. 
James's  Palace — and  well  I  could  understand  all  the  at- 
tractions of  his  life,  so  different  from  mine,  and  see  what 
a  good  fellow  he  was  to  come  so  often  to  Brunswick 
Square,  and  seem  so  happy  with  us. 

The  reader  will  conclude  that  I  was  a  kind  of  over-af- 
fectionate pestering  dull  dog,  who  made  this  brilliant 
youth's  life  a  burden  to  him.  It  was  really  not  so  ;  avo 
had  very  many  tastes  in  common  ;  and  with  all  his  vari- 
ous temptations,  ho  had  a  singularly  constant  and  affec- 


138 


tionjite  nature  —  and  was  of  a  Froncliness  that  made 
French  thought  and  talk  and  coninuine  almost  a  daily 
necessit}'.  We  nearly  always  spoke  French  when  to- 
gether alone,  or  with  my  mother  and  sister.  It  would 
have  seemed  almost  unnatural  not  to  have  done  so. 

I  always  feel  a  special  tenderness  towards  young  peo- 
ple whose  lives  have  been  such  that  those  two  languages 
are  exactly  the  same  to  them.  It  means  so  mauy  things 
to  me.  It  doubles  them  in  my  estimation,  and  I  seem  to 
understand  them  through  and  through. 

Nor  did  he  seem  to  care  much  for  the  siuart  society  of 
which  he  saw  so  much ;  perhaps  the  bar  sinister  may 
have  made  him  feel  less  at  his  ease  in  general  society  than 
among  his  intimates  and  old  friend^.  I  feel  sure  he  took 
this  to  heart  more  than  any  one  would  have  thought  pos- 
sible from  his  careless  manner. 

He  only  once  alluded  directly  to  this  when  wo  were  to- 
gether. I  was  speaking  to  him  of  the  enviable  brilliancy 
of  his  lot.  He  looked  at  me  pensively  for  a  minute  or 
two,  and  said,  in  English  : 

**  You've  got  a  kink  in  your  nose.  Bob — if  it  weren't 
for  that  you'd  be  a  deuced  good-looking  follow — like  me ; 
but  you  ain't." 

''Thanks — anything  else  ?"  said  I. 

"  Well,  I've  got  a  kink  iu  my  birth,  you  sec — ami  tluit's 
as  big  a  kill-joy  as  I  kiu)\v.     I  hate  it !" 

It  wufi  hard  luck.  He  would  have  made  such  a 
splendid  Marquis  of  Whitby  !  aud  done  such  honor  to 
the  proud  old  family  motto  : 

''  lloy  ne  ])ui8,  prince  lu)  daigiu",  Rohan  j(^  suis  !" 

Instead  of  which  he  got  himsell'  a  siguet-ring,  and  on  it 
he  caused  to  be  engraved  a  zero  witliiu  a  naught,  and 
round  them : 

**  Rohan  no  puis,  roi  ne  daigne.     Uion  no  suis  !" 


t 


134 


Soon  it  became  pretty  evident  that  a  subtle  change 
was  being  wrought  in  him. 

He  had  quite  lost  liis  power  of  feeling  the  north,  and 
missed  it  dreadfully  ;  he  could  no  longer  turn  his  back- 
somersault  with  ease  and  safety  ;  he  had  overcome  his 
loathing  for  meat,  and  also  his  dislike  for  sport — he  had, 
indeed,  become  a  very  good  shot. 

But  he  could  still  hear  and  see  and  smell  with  all  the 
keenness  of  a  young  animal  or  a  savage.  And  that  must 
have  made  his  sense  of  being  alive  very  much  more  vivid 
than  is  the  case  with  other  mortals. 

He  had  also  corrected  his  quick  impulsive  tendency 
to  slap  faces  that  were  an  inch  or  two  higher  up  than  his 
own.  He  didn't  often  come  across  one,  for  one  thing 
— then  it  would  not  have  been  considered  "good  form" 
in  her  Majesty's  Household  Brigade. 

When  he  was  a  boy,  as  the  reader  may  recollect,  he 
was  fond  of  drawing  lovely  female  profiles  with  black 
iiu,ir  and  an  immense  black  eye,  and  gazing  at  them  as 
he  smoked  a  cigarette  and  listened  to  pretty,  liglit  mu- 
sic. He  developed  a  most  ardent  admiration  for  female 
beauty,  and  mixed  more  and  more  in  worldly  and  fash- 
ionable circles  (of  which  I  saw  nothing  whatever) ;  cir- 
cles where  the  heavenly  gift  of  beauty  is  made  more  of, 
perhaps,  than  is  quite  good  for  its  possessors,  whether 
female  or  male. 

He  was  himself  of  a  personal  beauty  so  exceptional 
that  incredible  temptations  came  his  way.  Aristocratic 
people  all  over  the  world  make  great  allowance  for  beau- 
ty-born frailties  that  would  spell  ruin  and  everlasting 
disgrace  for  women  of  the  class  to  which  it  is  my  privi- 
lege to  belong. 

Barty,  of  course,  did  not  confide  his  love-adventures 
to  me  ;  in  this  he  was  no  Frenchman.     But  I  saw  quite 


135 


enough  to  know  he  was  more  pursued  thiin  pursuing ; 
and  what  a  pursuer,  to  a  num  built  like  that  I  no  inno- 
cent, impulsive  young  girl,  no  simple  maiden  in  her 
flower — no  Elaine. 

But  a  magnificent  full-blown  peeress,  who  knew  her 
own  mind  and  had  nothing  to  fear,  for  her  husband  was 
no  better  than  herself.  But  for  that,  a  Guinevere  and 
Vivien  rolled  into  one,  ;j/y/s  ^lessalina ! 

Nor  was  she  the  only  light  o'  love  ;  there  are  many 
naughty  "  grandes  dames  de  par  le  mondo  "  whose  easy 
virtue  fits  them  like  a  silk  stocking,  and  who  live  and 
love  pretty  much  as  they  please  without  loss  of  caste,  so 
long  as  they  keej)  clear  of  any  open  scandal.  It  is  one 
of  the  privileges  of  high  rank. 

Then  there  were  the  ladies  gay,  frankly  of  the  half- 
world,  these  —  laughter-loving  heta?n«,  with  perilously 
soft  hearts  for  such  as  Barty  Josselin  !  There  was  even 
poor,  listless,  lazy,  languid  Jenny,  ''Fond  of  a  kiss  and 
fond  of  a  guinea  !" 

His  heart  was  never  touched — of  that  I  feel  sure ;  and 
he  was  not  vain  of  these  triumphs  ;  but  he  was  a  very 
reckless  youth,  a  kind  of  young  John  Churchill  before 
Sarah  Jennings  took  him  in  hand — absolutely  non-moral 
about  such  things,  rather  than  immoral. 

He  grew  to  be  a  quite  notorious  young  man  about 
town;  and,  most  unfortunately  for  him,  Lord  (and  even 
Lady)  Archibald  Rohan  were  so  fond  of  him,  and  so 
proud,  and  so  amiably  non-moral  themselves,  that  he 
was  left  to  go  as  he  might. 

He  also  developed  some  very  rowdy  tastes  indeed — 
and  so  did  I ! 

It  was  the  fashion  for  our  golden  youth  in  the  fifties 
to  do  so.  Every  night  in  the  Ilaymarket  there  was  a 
kind  of  noisy  saturnalia,  in  which  golden  youths  joined 


& 


136 


hands  with  youths  who  were  Iw  no  means  golden,  to 
give  much  trouble  to  the  police,  and  fill  the  pockets  of 
the  keepers  of  night-houses — ''Bob  Croft's,"  ''Kate 
Hamilton's,"  "  the  Piccadilly  Saloon,"  and  other  haunts 
equally  well  pulled  down  and  forgotten.  It  was  good, 
in  these  regions,  to  be  young  and  big  and  strong  like 
Barty  and  me,  and  well  versed  in  the  ''  handling  of  one's 
daddies."  I  suppose  London  was  the  only  great  city  in 
the  world  where  such  things  could  be.  I  am  afraid  that 
many  strange  people  of  both  sexes  called  us  Bob  and 
Barty  ;  people  the  mere  sight  or  hearing  of  whom  would 
have  given  my  poor  dear  father  fits  ! 

Then  there  was  a  little  public-house  in  St.  Martin's 
Lane,  kept  by  big  Ben  the  prize-fighter.  In  a  room  at 
the  top  of  the  house  there  used  to  be  much  sparring. 
We  both  of  us  took  a  high  degree  in  the  noble  art — es- 
pecially I,  if  it  be  not  bragging  to  say  so ;  mostly  on 
account  of  my  weight,  which  was  considerable  for  my 
age.  It  was  in  fencing  that  he  beat  me  hollow  :  he  was 
quite  the  best  fencer  I  ever  met ;  the  lessons  at  school 
of  Bonnet's  prevot  had  borne  good  fruit  in  his  case. 

Then  there  were  squalid  dens  frequented  by  touts  and 
betting-men  and  medical  students,  where  people  sang 
and  fought  and  laid  the  odds  and  got  very  drunk — and 
where  Barty's  performances  as  a  vocalist,  comic  and 
sentimental  (especially  the  latter),  raised  enthusiasm 
that  seems  almost  incredible  among  such  a  brutalized 
and  hardened  crew. 

One  night  he  and  I  and  a  medical  student  called 
Ticklets,  who  had  a  fine  '  iss  voice,  disguised  ourselves 
as  paupers,  and  went  singing  for  money  about  Camden 
Town  and  Mornington  Crescent  and  Regent's  Park.  It 
took  us  about  an  hour  to  make  eigliteen  pence.  Barty 
played  the  guitar,  Ticklets  the  tambourine,  and  I  the 


187 


bones.  Then  we  went  to  the  Iljiyniarket,  and  Barty 
made  fivepoiinds  in  no  time  ;  most  of  it  in  silver  dona- 
tions from  unfortunate  women — English,  of  course — 
who  are  among  the  softest-hearted  and  most  generous 
creatures  in  the  world. 

"O  laclirymarum  fons  !" 

I  forget  what  use  we  made  of  the  money — a  good  one, 
I  feel  sure. 

I  am  sorry  to  reveal  all  this,  but  Barty  wished  it. 
Forty  years  ago  such  things  did  not  seem  so  horrible  as 
they  would  now,  and  the  word  ''bounder"  had  not  been 
invented. 


My  sister  Ida,  when  about  fourteen  (1853),  became  a 
pupil  at  the  junior  school  in  the  Ladies'  College,  48 
Bedford  Square.  She  soon  made  friends  —  nice  young 
girls,  who  came  to  our  house,  and  it  was  much  the  live- 
lier. I  used  to  hear  much  of  them,  and  knew  them 
well  before  I  ever  saw  them  —  especially  Leah  Gibson, 
who  lived  in  Tavistock  Square,  and  was  Ida's  special 
friend  ;  at  last  I  was  quite  anxious  to  see  this  paragon. 

One  morning,  as  I  carried  Ida's  books  on  her  way  to 
school,  she  pointed  out  to  me  three  girls  of  her  own  age, 
or  less,  who  stood  talking  together  at  the  gates  of  the 
Foundling  Hospital.  Tbey  were  all  three  very  pretty 
children — quite  singularly  so — and  became  great  b(!au- 
ties  ;  one  golden-haired,  one  chestnut-brown,  one  blue- 
black.  The  black-haired  one  was  the  youngest  and  the 
tallest — a  line,  straight,  bony  child  of  twelve,  with  a  tlat 
back  and  square  shoulders;  she  was  very  well  dressed, 
and  had  nice  brown  boots  with  brown  elastic  sides  on 
arched  and  straight-heeled  slender  feet,  and  white  stock- 
ings on  her  long  legs — a  fashion  iu  hose  that  has  long 


138 


gone  out.  She  also  wore  a  thick  phiit  of  black  hair  all 
down  her  back — another  departed  mode,  and  one  not  to 
be  regretted,  I  think  ;  and  she  swung  her  books  round 
her  as  she  talked,  with  easy  movements,  like  a  strong 
boy. 

'^That*s  Leah  Gibson,''  says  my  sister  ;  ''the  tall  one, 
with  the  long  black  plait." 

Leah  Gibson  turned  round  and  nodded  to  my  sister 
and  smiled — showing  a  delicate  narrow  face,  a  clear  pale 
complexion,  very  beautiful  white  pearly  teeth  between 
very  red  lips,  and  an  extraordinary  pair  of  large  black 
eyes  —  rather  close  together  —  the  blackest  I  ever  saw, 
but  with  an  expression  so  quick  and  penetrating  and 
keen,  and  yet  so  good  and  frank  and  fric  v,  that  they 
positively  sent  a  little  warm  thrill  throu^  ..»e — though 
she  was  only  twelve  years  old,  and  not  a  bit  older  than 
her  age,  and  I  a  fast  youth  nearly  twenty  ! 

And  finding  her  very  much  to  my  taste,  I  said  to  my 
sister,  just  for  fun, ''  Oh — tliafs  Leah  Gibson,  is  it  ?  then 
some  day  Leah  Gibson  shall  be  Mrs.  Eobert  Maurice  \" 

From  which  it  may  be  inferred  that  I  looked  on  Leah 
Gibson,  at  the  first  sight  of  her,  as  likely  to  become 
some  day  an  extremely  desirable  person. 

She  did. 

The  Gibsons  lived  in  a  very  good  house  in  Tavistock 
Square.  They  seemed  very  well  off.  Mrs.  Gibson  had 
a  nice  carriage,  which  she  kept  entirely  with  her  own 
money.  Her  father,  who  was  dead,  had  been  a  wealthy 
solicitor.  He  had  left  a  large  family,  and  to  each  of 
them  property  worth  £300  a  year,  and  a  very  liberal  al- 
lowance of  good  looks. 

Mr.  Gibson  was  in  business  in  the  City. 

Leah,  their  only  child,  was  tlie  darling  of  their  hearts 
and  the  apple  of  their  eyes.     To  dress  her  beautifully. 


I; 


iti 


I 

■I.': 


H 


I 


'ri'!i!i!''y"hT'. 


i 


THREE  LITTLE  MAIDS  FKOM  SCHOOL  (1853) 


140 


m 


to  give  her  all  tlie  best  masters  money  could  procure, 
and  treat  her  to  every  amusement  in  London — theatres, 
the  opera,  all  the  concerts  and  shows  there  were,  and 
give  endless  young  parties  for  her  pleasure  —  all  this 
seemed  the  princii)al  interest  of  their  lives. 

Soon  after  my  first  introduction  to  Leah,  Ida  and  I 
received  an  invitation  to  a  kind  of  juvenile  festivity  at 
the  Gibsons',  and  went,  and  spent  a  delightful  evening. 
Wo  were  received  by  Mrs.  Gibson  most  cordially.  She 
was  such  an  extremely  pretty  person,  and  so  chariiM'ngly 
dressed,  and  had  such  winning,  natural,  genial  manners, 
that  I  fell  in  love  with  her  at  first  sight ;  she  was  also 
very  playful  and  fond  of  romping  ;  for  she  was  young 
still,  having  married  at  seventeen. 

Her  mother,  Mrs.  Bletchley  (who  was  present),  was  a 
Spanish  Jewess — a  most  magnificent  and  beautiful  old 
person  in  splendid  attire,  tall  and  straight,  with  white 
hair  and  thick  black  eyebrows,  and  large  eyes  as  black  as 
night. 

In  Leah  the  high  Sephardic  Jewish  type  was  more 
marked  than  in  Mrs.  Gibson  (who  was  not  Jewish  at  all  in 
aspect,  and  took  after  her  father,  the  late  Mr.  liletchley). 

It  is  a  type  that  sometimes,  just  now  jiiul  again,  can 
be  so  patlietically  noble  and  beautiful  in  a  woman,  so 
suggestive  of  cluistity  and  tlie  most  piissionate  love  com- 
bined— love  conjugal  and  lllial  and  matermil — love  that 
implies  all  the  big  pr'otical  obligations  ami  responsibil- 
ities of  human  life,  that  the  mere  term  "Jewess''  (and 
especially  its  French  equivalent)  brings  to  my  mind  some 
vague,  mysterious,  exotically  poetic;  image  of  all  I  love 
best  in  woman.  1  find  myself  diviuning  ol'  Ilebecca  of 
York,  as  I  used  to  dream  of  her  in  the  English  class  at 
BroHsard's,  where  I  so  pitied  poor  Ivanhoe  for  his  mis- 
placed uoustancy. 


141 


If  Rebecca  at  fifty-five  was  at  all  like  Mrs.  Bletchley, 
poor  old  Sir  Wilfred's  regrets  must  have  been  all  that 
Tliackeray  made  them  out  to  be  in  his  immortal  story  of 
Rebecca  and  Jiowena. 

Mr.  Gibson  was  a  good-looking  man,  some  twelve  or 
fifteen  years  older  than  his  wife  ;  his  real  vocation  was 
to  be  a  low  comedian  ;  this  showed  itself  on  my  first 
it^troraction  to  him.  He  informally  winked  at  me  and 
said  : 

"  Esker  voo  ker  jer  dwaw  lali  vee  ?    Ah  !  kel  Bon- 


nure 


!" 


This  idiotic  speech  (all  the  French  he  knew)  was  de- 
livered in  so  droll  and  natural  a  manner  tliat  I  took  to 
him  at  once.     Barty  himself  couldn't  have  been  funnier! 

Well,  we  had  games  of  forfeits  and  danced,  and  Ida 
played  charming  things  by  Mendelssohn  on  the  piano, 
and  Leah  sang  very  nicely  in  a  fine,  bold,  frank,  deep 
voice,  like  a  choir-boy's,  and  Mrs.  rji])son  danced  a  Span- 
ish fandango,  and  displayed  feet  and  ankles  of  which 
she  v/as  very  proud,  an<l  had  every  right  to  be ;  and  then 
Mr.  (ribson  played  a  solo  on  the  flute,  and  sang  **  My 
Pretty  Jane" — bf^tli  badly  enough  to  be  very  funny  with- 
out any  conscious  effort  or  straining  on  his  part.  Then 
we  supped,  and  the  food  was  good,  and  we  were  all  very 
jolly  indeed  ;  and  aft(n'  sup})er  Mr.  (jiljson  said  to  me  : 

''Now,  Mister  Parleyvoo — can't  i/oti.  do  something  to 
amuse  the  company  ?     You're  f)((/  enough  !" 

I  professed  my  willingnoss  to  do  any  thin  fj — and  wished 
I  was  as  Barty  inore  than  ever  I 

''Well,  then,"  says  he — "kneel  to  the  wittiest,  bow 
to  the  prettiest — and  kiss  the  one  you  love  best." 

This  was  rather  a  large  order — l)ut  I  did  as  well  as  I 
could.  I  went  down  on  my  knees  to  Mr.  (iibson  and 
craved  his  paternal  blessing  ;  and  nuide  my  best  French 


•1^ 

ill' 

1 


142 


bow  with  my  heels  together  to  old  Mrs.  Bletchley ;  and 
kissed  my  sister,  warmly  thanking  I'er  in  public  for  hav- 
ing introduced  me  to  Mrs.  Gibson  ;  and  as  far  as  mere 
social  success  is  worth  anything,  I  was  the  Barty  of  that 
party  ! 

Anyhow,  Mr.  Gibson  conceived  for  me  an  admiration 
he  never  failed  to  express  when  we  met  afterwards,  and 
though  this  was  fun,  of  course,  I  had  really  won  his 
heart. 

It  is  but  a  humble  sort  of  triumph  to  crow  over — and 
where  does  Barty  Josselin  come  in  ? 

Pazienza  ! 

'*  Well — what  do  you  think  of  Leah  Gibson  ?"  said  my 
sister,  as  we  walked  home  together  through  Torrington 
Square. 

*'l  think  she's  a  regular  stunner,"  said  I — 'Mike  her 
mother  and  her  grandmother  before  her,  and  probably 
her  .^rea^grandmother  too." 

And  being  a  poetical  youth,  and  well  up  in  my  Byron, 
I  declaimed  : 


"She  walks  in  beiuity,  like  the  night 
Of  cloudless  climes  unil  starry  skies; 
And  all  that's  best  of  dark  and  bright 
Meet  in  her  aspect  and  her  eyes."  .  . 


Old  fogy  as  I  am,  and  still  given  to  poetical  quota- 
tions. I  never  made  a  more  felicitous  quotation  than 
that.  I  little  guessed  then  to  what  splendor  that  bony 
black-eyed  damsel  would  reach  in  time. 


All  tiirough  tiiis  period  of  liigli  life  and  low  dissipa- 
tion Barty  ke])t  his  unuitenibie  good-humor  and  high 
spirits — and  especially  the  kindly  grace  of  nuuiner  and 
tact  uud  good-breeding  that  kept  him  from  ever  offend- 


143 


ing  the  most  fastidious,  in  spite  of  his  high  spirits,  and 
made  him  many  a  poor  grateful  outcast's  friend  and 
darling. 

I  remember  once  dining  witli  him  at  Greenwich  in 
very  distinguislied  company  ;  I  don't  remember  how  I 
came  to  be  invited — through  Barty,  no  doubt,  lie  got 
me  many  invitations  that  I  often  thought  it  better  not 
to  accejit.     "  Xe  sutor  ultra  crepidam  !" 

It  was  a  fish  dinner,  and  Barty  ate  and  drank  a  sur- 
prising amount — and  so  did  I,  and  lilced  it  very  much. 

We  were  all  late  and  hurried  for  the  hist  train,  some 
twenty  of  us — and  Barty,  Lord  Arcliibald,  and  I,  and  a 
Colonel  Walker  Lindsay,  who  has  since  become  a  peer 
and  a  Field-Marshal  (and  is  now  dead),  were  all  pushed 
together  into  a  carriage,  already  occupied  by  a  distin- 
guished clergyman  and  a  charming  young  lady — prob- 
ably his  daughter  ;  from  his  dress,  he  was  either  a  dean 
or  a  bishop,  and  I  sat  opposite  to  him — in  the  corner. 

Barty  was  very  noisy  and  excited  as  the  train  moved 
ofE ;  he  was  rather  tipsy,  in  fact — and  I  was  alarmed,  on 
account  of  the  clerical  gentleman  and  his  female  com- 
panion. As  we  journeyed  on,  Barty  began  to  romp  and 
play  the  fool  and  perform  fantastic  tricks — to  the  im- 
mense deligiit  of  the  future  Field-Marshal.  He  twisted 
two  pocket-handkerchiefs  into  human  figures,  one  on 
each  hand,  and  made  them  sing  to  each  other — like  Grisi 
and  Mario  in  the  Iluyucnots — and  clever  drivel  of  that 
kind.  Lord  Archibald  and  Colonel  Lindsay  were  beside 
themselves  with  glee  at  all  this  ;  they  also  had  dined 
well. 

Then  he  imitated  a  poor  man  fishing  in  St.  .Fauies's 
Park  and  not  catching  any  fish.  And  this  really  was  uu- 
commonly  good  ami  true  to  life — with  wonderful  artistic 
details,  that  showed  keen  observation. 


144 


I  saw  that  the  bishop  and  his  daughter  (if  such  they 
were)  grew  deeply  interested,  and  laughed  and  chuckled 
discreetly  ;  the  young  lady  had  a  charming  expression 
on  her  face  as  she  watched  the  idiotic  13arty,  who  got 
more  idiotic  with  every  mile — and  this  was  to  be  the 
man  who  wrote  Sardonyx! 

As  the  train  slowed  into  the  London  station,  the  bishop 
leant  forward  towards  me  and  inquired,  in  a  whisper, 

"  May  I  ask  the  name  of  your  singularly  delightful 
young  friend  ?" 

*'  His  name  is  Barty  Josselin,'^  I  answered. 

"  Not  of  the  Grenadier  Guards  T' 

'•'  Yes." 

*'  Oh,  indeed  !  a — yes — I've  heard  of  him — '* 

And  his  lordship's  face  became  hard  ana  stern — and 
soon  we  all  got  out. 


they 

kled 

5sion 

got 

the 


shop 


itful 


-and 


part  jfourtb 

"La  cigalc  ayanl  chante 
Tout  I'ete, 
Se  trouva  fort  dopourvue 
Quaud  la  bise  fiit  venue."  .  .  . 

— Lafontaine. 

Sometimes  I  went  to  see  Lord  and  Lady  Arcliibald, 
who  lived  in  CUirges  Street;  and  Lady  Arcliibald  was 
kind  enough  to  call  on  my  mother,  who  was  charmed 
with  her,  and  returned  her  call  in  due  time. 

Also,  at  about  this  period  (18o;;'  my  uncle  Charles 
(Captain  Bhike,  late  17th  Lancers),  who  had  been  Lord 
Runswick's  crony  twenty  years  before,  patched  up  some 
feud  he  had  with  my  father,  and  came  to  t^ee  us  in 
Brunswick  Square. 

He  had  just  married  a  charming  girl,  young  enough 
to  be  his  daughter. 

I  took  him  to  see  Barty,  and  they  became  fast  friends. 
My  uncle  Charles  wms  a  very  acc()m|)lisiied  umui,  and 
spoke  French  as  well  as  any  of  us ;  and  Barty  lilted  him, 
and  it  ended,  oddly  enough,  in  iriKjIe  Charles  becoming 
Lord  Wiiitby's  land-agent  and  living  in  St.  Ilihla's  Ter- 
race, Whitby. 

He  was  a  very  good  fellow  and  a  thorough  nuin  of  the 
world,  and  was  of  great  service  to  Barty  in  many  ways. 
But,  alas  and  alas!  he  was  not  al)le  to  prevent  or  make 
up  the  disastrous  quarrel  tiiat  happened  between  Barty 

10 


146 


and  Lord  Archibald,  witli  such  terriljle  results  to  my 
friend — to  both. 

It  is  all  difficult  even  to  hint  at — but  some  of  it  must 
be  more  than  hinted  at. 

Lord  Archibald,  like  his  nephew,  was  a  very  passion- 
ate admirer  of  lovely  woman,  lie  had  been  for  many 
years  a  faithful  and  devoted  husband  to  the  excellent 
Frenchwoman  who  brought  him  wealtli — and  such  affec- 
tion !  Then  a  terrible  temi)tation  came  in  his  way.  He 
fell  in  love  with  a  very  beautiful  and  fascinating  lady, 
whose  birth  and  principles  and  antecedents  were  alike 
very  unfortunate,  and  IJarty  was  mixed  up  in  all  this : 
it's  the  saddest  thing  I  ever  heard. 

The  beautiful  lady  conceived  for  Barty  one  of  those 
frantic  passions  that  must  lead  to  somebody's  ruin  ;  it 
led  to  his ;  but  he  was  never  to  blame,  except  for  the 
careless  indiscretion  Avhicli  allowed  of  his  being  con- 
cerned in  the  miserable  business  at  all,  and  to  this  fran- 
tic passion  he  did  not  respond. 


(( 


Sprvt(e  iujuria  furmw 


)> 


So  at  least  nhe  fancied  ;  it  was  not  so.  Barty  was  no 
laggard  in  love;  but  he  dearly  loved  his  uncle  Archie, 
and  was  loyal  to  him  all  through. 

"  His  honor  rootx'd  in  dislionor  stood, 
And  fiiith  tinfuilliful  kept  him  falsely  true." 

Where  ho  was  unfaithful  was  to  his  beloved  and  ador- 
ing Lady  Archibald — his  second  mother — at  miserable 
cost  of  uiulying  remorse  to  himself  for  ever  having  sunk 
to  become  Lord  Archibald's  confidant  and  love-messen- 
ger, and  bearer  of  nosegays  and  hillvts  doux,  and  singer 
of  little  French  songs.  He  was  only  twenty,  and  thought 
of  such  things  as  jokes ;  he  had  lived  among  some  of  the 
pleaauutest,  bust-bred,  and  most  corrupt  people  in  London. 


147 


The  beautiful  frail  lady  told  the  most  infamous  lies, 
and  stuck  to  them  through  thick  and  thin.  Tiic  story 
is  not  new;  it's  as  old  as  the  Pharaohs.  And  Barty  and 
his  uncle  quarrelled  beyond  recall.  The  boy  was  too 
proud  even  to  defend  himself,  beyond  one  simple  denial. 

Then  another  tiling  happeneil.  Lady  Archibald  died, 
quite  suddenly,  of  peritonitis — fortunately  in  ignorance 
of  what  was  happening,  and  with  her  hus))and  and  daugh- 
ter and  Barty  round  her  bedside  at  the  end.  She  died 
deceived  and  happy. 

Lord  Archibald  was  beside  himself  with  grief;  but  in 
six  months  he  nuirried  the  beautiful  ladv,  and  went  to 
the  bad  altogether  —  went  under,  in  fact;  a  id  Daphne, 
his  daughter  of  fourteen  or  fifteen,  was  taivcn  by  the 
Whitbys. 

So  now  Barty,  thoroughly  sick  of  smart  society,  fouiul 
himself  in  an  unexpected  position  —  without  an  allow- 
ance, in  a  crack  regiment,  and  never  a  penny  to  look 
forward  to ! 

For  old  Lord  Whitby,  who  loved  him,  was  a  poor  num 
with  a  large  family;  and  every  penny  of  Lady  Archi- 
bald's fortune  that  didn't  go  to  her  husband  and  daugh- 
ter went  back  to  her  own  family  of  Lonlay-Savignac. 
She  had  made  no  will — no  provision  for  her  beloved,  her 
adopted  son  1 

So  ]?arty  never  went  to  the  Crimea,  after  all,  but  sold 
out,  and  found  himself  the  possessor  of  seven  or  eight 
hundred  pounds — moht  of  which  he  owed — and  with  the 
world  before  him;  but  I  am  going  too  fast. 


In  the  winter  of  185:3,  just  before  Christmas,  my  father 
fitted  up  for  me  a  chemical  laboratory  at  the  top  of  the 
fine  old  house  in  Barge  Yard,  Bucklersbury,  where  his 
wiue  business  was  carried  on,  a  splendid  mansion,  with 


148 


panelled  rooms  and  a  carved -oak  staircase  —  once  the 
abode  of  some  Dick  Wliittington,  no  doubt  a  Lord 
Mayor  of  London ;  and  I  began  my  professional  career, 
which  consisted  in  analyzing  any  tiling  I  could  get  to 
analyze  for  hire,  from  a  sample  of  gold  or  copper  ore  to 
a  poisoned  stomach. 

Lord  Whitby  very  kindly  sent  me  different  samples  f 
soil  from  different  fields  on  his  estate,  and  I  analyzed 
them  carefully  and  found  them  singularly  like  each  oth- 
er. I  don't  think  the  estate  benefited  much  by  my  sci- 
entific investigation.  It  was  my  first  job,  and  brought 
me  twenty  pounds  (out  of  which  I  bought  two  beautiful 
fans — one  for  my  sister,  the  other  for  Leah  Gibson — and 
got  a  new  evening  suit  for  myself  at  Barty's  tailor's). 

When  this  Job  of  mine  was  finished  I  had  a  good  deal 
of  time  on  my  hands,  Jiud  read  many  novels  and  smoked 
many  pipes,  as  1  sat  by  my  chemical  stove  and  distilled 
water,  and  dried  chlorate  of  potash  to  keep  the  damp 
out  of  my  scales,  and  toasted  cheese,  and  fried  sausages, 
and  mulled  Burgundy,  and  brewed  nice  drinks,  hot  or 
cold — a  specialty  of  mine. 

I  also  niade  my  laboratory  a  very  pleasant  place.  JVIy 
father  wouldn't  permit  a  piano,  nor  could  I  afford  one  ; 
but  I  smuggled  in  a  guitar  (for  Barty),  and  also  a  con- 
certina, which  I  could  play  a  little  myself.  Barty  often 
came  with  friends  of  his,  of  whom  my  father  did  not  ap- 
prove— mostly  Guardsmen  ;  also  friends  of  my  own — 
medical  students,  and  one  or  two  fellow-chemists,  who 
were  serious,  and  ph'ased  my  father.  We  often  had  a 
capital  time:  chemical  experiments  and  explosions,  and 
fearful  stinks,  and  poisoned  waters  of  enchanting  hue  ; 
also  oysters,  lobsters,  dressed  crab  for  lunch — and  my 
Burgundy  was  good,  I  promise  you,  whether  white  or 
red  I 


SOLITUDE 


150 


We  also  had  songs  and  mnsic  of  every  description. 
Barty's  taste  had  improved.  lie  could  sing  Beethoven's 
"Adelaida"  in  English,  German,  and  Italian,  and  Schu- 
bert's **  Serenade  "  in  French — quite  charmingly,  to  his 
own  ingenious  accompaniment  on  the  guitar. 

We  had  another  vocalist,  a  little  Hebrew  art-student, 
with  a  heavenly  tenor  (I've  forgotten  his  name);  and 
Ticklets,  the  bass ;  and  a  (Juardsman  who  could  jodel 
and  imitate  a  woman's  voice — one  Pepys,  whom  15arty 
loved  because  he  was  a  giant,  and,  according  to  Barty, 
*'the  handsomest  chap  in  London." 

These  debauches  generally  happened  when  my  father 
was  abroad — always,  in  fact.  I'm  greatly  ashamed  of  it 
all  now  ;  even  then  my  heart  smote  me  heavily  at  times 
when  I  thought  of  the  pride  and  pleasure  he  took  in  all 
my  scientific  appliances,  and  the  money  they  cost  him — 
twenty  guineas  for  a  pair  of  scales  !  Poor  dear  old  man  ! 
he  loved  to  weigh  things  in  them — a  feather,  a  minute 
crumb  of  cork,  an  infinitesimal  wisp  of  cotton  wool  ! .  .  . 

However,  I've  made  it  all  up  to  him  since  in  many 
ways  ;  and  he  has  told  me  that  I  have  been  a  good  son, 
after  all !  And  that  is  good  to  think  of  now  that  I  am 
older  than  he  was  when  he  died  ! 


One  fine  morning,  before  going  to  Inisiness,  I  escorted 
my  sister  to  Bedford  Scpiare,  calling  for  Leah  (Jibson  on 
the  way  ;  as  we  walked  up  (jreat  Russell  Street  (that 
being  the  longest  way  round  I  could  think  of),  we  met 
Barty,  looking  as  fresh  as  a  school-boy,  and  resplendent 
as  usual.  I  remember  he  had  on  a  long  blue  frock-(N)at, 
check  trousers,  an  elaborate  waistcoat  and  scarf,  and 
white  hat — as  was  the  fashion — and  that  he  looked  sin- 
gularly out  of  place  (and  uncommonly  agreeable  to  the 
eye)  in  such  an  austere  and  learned  neighborhood. 


151 


He  was  coming  to  call  for  ine  in  lininswick  Square. 

My  sister  introduced  him  to  her  friend,  and  lie  hooked 
down  at  Leah  with  a  surprised  ghmce  of  (h?licate  fatherly 
admiration — he  miglit  have  been  fifty. 

Tlien  we  left  the  young  hidies  and  went  off  together 
citywards  ;  my  father  was  ahroad. 

"  By  Jove,  what  a  stunner  that  girl  is  !  I'm  hh'st  if  I 
don't  marry  her  some  day — you  see  if  I  don't  !" 

"  That's  just  what  /  mean  to  do,"  said  I.  And  we  had 
a  good  laugh  at  the  idea  of  two  such  desperadoes,  as  wo 
thought  ourselves,  talking  like  this  al)out  a  little  school- 
girl. 

'•'We'll  toss  up,"  says  Barty ;  and  we  did,  and  he 
won. 

This,  I  remember,  was  before  his  quarrel  with  Lord 
Archibald.  She  was  then  about  fourteen,  nnd  her  sul)- 
tle  and  singular  beauty  was  just  beginning  to  make  it- 
self felt. 

I  never  knew  till  long  after  how  deep  had  been  the 
impression  produced  by  this  glimpse  of  a  mere  child  on 
a  fast  young  man  about  town  -or  1  siiould  not  have  been 
amused.  For  there  were  times  when  1  myself  i bought 
quite  seriously  of  Leah  Gibson,  and  what  she  miglit  be 
in  the  long  future  I  She  looked  a  year  or  two  oldiT  than 
she  really  was,  being  very  tall  and  extremely  sedate. 

Also,  both  my  father  and  mother  h;id  conceived  such 
a  liking  for  her  that  they  constantly  talked  of  the  i)ossi- 
bility  of  our  falling  in  love  with  each  other  some  day. 
(Jastles  in  Spain  I 

As  for  me,  my  admiration  for  the  child  was  immense, 
and  my  respect  for  her  character  unboundeil  :  :ind  1  felt 
myself  such  a  base  unworthy  brute  that  I  coiihiu'L  bear 
to  think  of  myself  in  such  a  conn{^ction  —  until  I  had 
cleansed  my-^eli*  heart  and  soul  (which  would  take  time)! 


fe 


152 


And  as  for  showing  by  my  manner  to  her  that  such  an 
idea  had  ever  crossed  my  mind,  the  thought  never  en- 
tered my  liead. 

She  was  just  my  dear  sister's  devoted  friend  ;  her  pet- 
ticoat hem  was  still  some  inches  from  the  ground,  and 
her  hair  in  a  plait  all  down  her  back.  .  .  . 

Girlisli  innocence  and  purity  incarnate — that  is  what 
phe  seemed;  and  Avhat  she  was.  '*La  plus  forte  des 
forces  est  un  ca3ur  innocent,'"  said  Victor  Hugo — and  if 
you  translate  this  literally  into  English,  it  comes  to  ex- 
actly the  same,  both  in  rhythm  and  sense. 


When  Barty  sold  out,  he  first  thought  he  would  like 
to  go  on  the  stage,  but  it  turired  out  that  he  was  too 
tall  to  play  anything  but  serious  footmen. 

Then  he  thought  he  would  be  a  singer.  We  used  to 
go  to  the  opera  at  Drury  Lane,  wiiere  they  gave  in  Eng- 
lish a  (lilt'erent  Italian  opera  every  night; — and  this  was 
always  followed  by  Acis  and  Galatea. 

AVe  got  our  seats  'n  the  stalls  every  evening  for  a 
couple  of  weeks,  through  the  kindness  of  Mr.  Hamilton 
Braham,  whom  Barty  knew,  and  who  jilayed  Polyphemus 
in  Handel's  famous  serenata. 

I  remember  our  first  night ;  they  gave  Masaniello, 
which  I  had  never  seen  ;  and  when  the  tenor  sang,  '*  Be- 
hold how  brightly  breaks  the  morning,"  it  came  on  us 
both  as  a  delicious  surprise — it  was  such  a  favorite  song 
at  Mro&anrd's —  '' amis!  la  matinee  est  belle  ..."  In- 
deed, it  was  one  of  the  songs  Bartysang  on  the  boule- 
vard for  the  poor  woman,  six  or  seven  years  back. 

The  tenor,  Mr.  Elliot  (Jaler,  had  a  lovely  voice;  and 
that  was  a  moment  never  to  be  forgotten. 

Then  came  Arts  and  Galatea,  which  was  so  odd  and 
old-fashioned  we  could  scarcely  sit  it  out. 


"  '  PILE  OU  FACE— HEADS  OU  TAILS  ?'  " 


154 


Next  night,  Lucia — charming ;  then  again  Acis  and 
Galatea,  because  we  had  nowliere  else  to  go. 

**Tiens,  ticns  !'"'  says  ]?arty,  as  the  lovers  sang  'Hhe 
flocks  shall  leave  the  mountains";  ^*c'est  diantrement 
joli,  9a  I — ecoute  !" 

Next  night,  Zrt  Sonnambiila'  -then  again  Acis  and 
Galatea. 

''Mais,  nom  d'une  pipe--elle  est  divine,  cette  mu- 
si(|ue-ia  !"  says  Barty. 

And  the  nights  after  we  could  scarcely  sit  out  the 
Italian  opera  that  preceded  what  we  have  looked  upon 
ever  since  as  among  the  divinest  music  in  the  world. 

So  one  must  not  judge  music  at  a  first  heariug;  nor 
poetry;  nor  pictures  at  first  sight;  unless  one  be  poet 
or  painter  or  musician  one's  self  —  not  oven  then  I  I 
may  live  to  love  thee  yet,  oh  'Dnn/I/axsi'r  ! 

Lucy  Esccit,  Fanny  Iluddart,  Elliot  (laler,  and  Ham- 
ilton Brahani  —  that  was  the  cast;  I  hear  their  voices 
now.  .  .  . 

One  morning  TIamilton  ]5raham  tried  Tlarty's  voice  on 
the  ein])ty  stage  jit  St.  James's  Theatre — made  him  sing 
"When  other  lips." 

"Sing  oat,  man — sing  0?///"  said  the  l)ig  bass.  And 
Rarty  sliouied  his  loudest — a  method  which  did  not  suit 
him.  1  sat  in  the  pit,  with  half  a  dozen  Guardsmen, 
who  were  deeply  interested  in  Harty's  operatic  aspira- 
tions. 

Jt  turned  out  that  Marty  was  neither  tenor  nor  bary- 
tone; and  that  his  light  voice,  so  charming  in  a  room, 
would  never  do  for  the  operatic  stage  ;  although  his 
tigure,  in  spite  of  his  great  height,  would  have  suited 
heroic  ])a.rts  so  admirahly. 

Besides,  three  or  four  years'  training  in  Italy  woro 
needed — a  dilTerent  [)rodu('lion  altogether. 


155 


So  Barty  gave  up  this  idea  and  made  np  liis  mind  to 
be  an  artist.  He  got  permission  to  work  in  the  liritish 
Miisenm,  and  drew  the  "  Discobolus,"  and  sent  his  draw- 
ing to  the  Royal  Academy,  in  the  hope  of  being  admitted 
there  as  a  student.     He  was  not. 

Then  an  immense  overwhelming  homesickness  for  Paris 
came  over  him,  and  he  felt  he  must  go  and  study  art 
there,  aiul  succeed  or  perish. 

My  father  talked  to  him  like  a  father,  my  mother  like 
a  mother;  we  all  hung  about  him  aiul  entreated.  Flo 
was  as  obdurate  as  'V  myson's  sailor-boy  whom  the  mer- 
maiden  forewarned  so  fiercely  ! 

He  was  even  offered  a  handsome  appointment  in  the 
London  house  of  Vougeot-Conti  «S^  Co. 

But  his  tuind  was  nuulo  up,  and  to  my  sorrow,  and  the 
sorrow  of  all  who  knew  him,  h.e  fixed  the  date  of  his  de- 
parture for  the  ^d  of  May  (IS'jO), — this  being  the  day 
after  a  party  at  the  (Jihsons' — a  young  dance  in  honor  of 
Leah's  fifteenth  birthday,  on  the  1st — and  to  which  my 
sister  had  procured  him  an  invitation. 

He  had  never  been  to  the  Gibsons'  before.  They  be- 
longed to  a  world  so  different  to  anything  he  had  been 
accustomed  to — indeed,  to  a  class  that  he  then  so  much 
disliked  and  des[)ised  (both  as  ex-duardsman  and  as  the 
descendant  of  l"'rench  toilers  of  the  sea,  who  hate  and 
scorn  the  bourgeois) — that  1  was  curious  to  see  how  he 
would  bear  himself  there  ;  and  rather  nervous,  for  it 
would  have  grievecl  me  that  he  should  hxtk  down  on 
p(H)ple  of  whom  I  was  getting  very  fond.  It  was  his 
theory  that  all  successful  i)usiness  people  were  pompous 
and  [)urse-proud  aiul  vulgar. 

I  admit  that  in  the  fifties  we  very  often  were. 

There  may  perhaps  be  a  few  survivals  of  that  j)cri  >d  : 
old  uouveaux   riches,  who  are  still  modestly  jocose  on 


ir 


156 


the  subject  of  each  otlier's  millions  when  they  meet,  and 
indulge  in  pompons  little  pleasantries  about  their  pet 
economics,  and  drop  a  pompous  little  h  now  and  then, 
and  pretend  they  only  did  it  for  fun.  But,  dear  me, 
there  are  other  things  to  be  vulgar  about  in  this  world 
besides  money  and  uncertain  aspirates. 

If  to  be  pompous  and  pretentious  and  insincere  is  to 
be  vulgar,  I  really  think  the  vulgar  of  our  time  are  not 
these  old  plutocrats — not  even  their  grandsons,  who  hunt 
and  shoot  and  yacht  and  swagger  with  the  best — but 
those  solemn  little  prigs  who  have  done  well  at  school  or 
college,  and  become  radicals  and  agnostics  before  they've 
even  had  time  to  find  out  what  men  and  women  are  made 
of,  or  wliat  SOX  they  belong  to  themselves  (if  any),  and 
loathe  all  fun  and  sport  and  athletics,  and  rave  about 
pictures  and  books  and  music  they  don't  understand,  and 
would  protend  to  despise  if  they  did — tilings  that  were 
not  even  mvAod  to  be  understood.  It  doesn't  take  three 
generations  to  make  a  prig — worse  luck  ! 

At  the  (Jibsons'  there  was  neither  i)ompousness  nor  in- 
sincerity noi  pretension  of  any  kind,  and  therefore  no 
real  vulgiirity.  It  is  true  thoy  were  a  little  bit  noisy 
there  sometimes,  but  only  in  fun. 

When  Ave  arrived  at  that  most  hospitable  house  the 
two  pretty  drawing-rooms  wore  already  cramniotl  with 
young  jK'oplo,  and  the  dancing  was  in  full  swing. 

J  ])rosented  Barty  to  Mrs.  (libson,  who  received  him 
with  her  usual  oiisy  (cordiality,  just  as  she  would  have 
received  one  of  her  husband's  clerks,  or  the  Prime  Min- 
ister ;  or  the  J'rince  Cttiisort  himself,  for  tliat  nuitter. 
But  she  looked  up  into  his  face  with  such  frank  un- 
ubashed  admiration  that  I  couldn't  lioli)  laughing — nor 
could  he  ! 

She  presented  him  to  Mr.  TJibscm,  wlio  drew  himself 


157 


back  and  folded  his  arms  and  frowned  ;  then  suddenly, 
striking  a  beautiful  stage  attitude  of  surprised  emotion, 
with  his  hand  on  his  heart,  he  exclaimed  : 

"  Oh  !  Monsewer  !  Esker-voo  ker  jer  dwaw  lali  vee  ? 
— ah  I  kel  bonnure  !" 

And  this  so  tickled  Barty  that  he  forgot  his  manners 
and  went  into  peals  of  laughter.  And  from  that  moment 
I  eeased  to  exist  as  the  bright  particular  star  in  Mr.  Gib- 
son ,  lirmament  of  eligible  young  men  :  for  in  spite  of 
the  kink  in  my  nose,  and  my  stolid  gravity,  which  was 
really  and  merely  the  result  of  my  shyness,  he  had 
always  looked  upon  me  as  an  exceptionally  presentable, 
projier,  and  goodly  youth,  and  a  most  exemplary — that 
is,  if  my  s^^^ter  was  to  bo  trusted  in  the  matter ;  for  she 
was  my  informant. 

I'm  afraid  Barty  was  not  so  immediately  popular  with 
the  young  cavaliers  of  the  party — but  all  came  right  in 
due  time.  For  after  supper,  which  was  early,  Barty 
played  the  fool  with  Mr.  Gibson,  and  taught  him  how  to 
do  a  mechanical  wax  figure,  of  which  he  himself  was  the 
showman  ;  and  the  laughter,  both  baritone  and  soprano, 
might  hav<  been  heard  in  Hussell  Sfpiare.  Then  they 
sang  an  exlempore  Italian  duet  togetber  wbicli  was 
screamingly  droll — and  so  forth. 

Leab  dislinguished  berself  as  usual  by  being  attentive 
to  the  material  wants  of  tlie  company:  comrortal)le  scats, 
ices,  syrups,  footstools  for  nuimmas,  and  wraps  ;  safety 
from  tborough  draugbts  for  grandpapas — tlie  inbcrited 
hospitality  of  tlie  clan  of  (Jibson  Look  tiiis  form  with 
the  sole  daugbrer  of  their  bouse  and  lionib  ;  she  had  no 
"parlor  tricks." 

We  retnained  the  latest.  It  was  a  full  moon,  or  nearly 
HO — as  usual  on  a  balcony;  for  I  remember  standing  ou 
the  balcony  with  Leah. 


'1% 

fe»v 


mmmm 


158 


A  belated  Italian  organ-grinder  stopped  beneath  us 
and  played  a  tune  from  /  Loin  hard  i,  called  ''La  mia 
letizia."  Leah's  hair  was  done  up  for  tlie  first  time — in 
two  heavy  black  bands  that  hid  her  little  ears  and  framed 
her  narrow  r '.linny  face — with  a  yellow  bow  plastered  on 
behind.  Such  was  the  fashion  tiien,  a  hideous  fashion 
enough — bu'  we  knew  no  better.  To  me  she  looked  so 
lovely  in  her  long  white  frock — long  for  the  first  time — 
that  Tavistock  Square  became  a  broad  Venetian  moonlit 
lagoon,  and  the  dome  of  University  College  an  old  Ital- 
ian church,  and  ''La  mia  letizia  "  the  song  of  Adrians 
goiulolier. 

I  asked  her  what  she  thought  of  Barty. 

"I  really  don't  know,"  she  said.  "He's  not  a  bit 
romantic,  is  he  ?" 

"  No ;  but  he's  very  handsome.  Don't  you  think 
so  ?" 

"Oh  yes,  indeed — much  too  handsome  for  a  man.  It 
seenib  such  waste.  AVhy,  I  now  remember  seeing  him 
when  I  was  quite  a  little  girl,  three  or  four  years  ago, 
at  the  Duke  of  "Wellington's  funeral.  lie  luid  his  bear- 
skin on.  I*iij)ii  pointed  him  out  to  us,  and  said  he  looked 
liku  such  a  [)retty  girl  I  And  we  all  wondered  who  lie 
could  be  I  And  so  sad  he  looked  !  J  su])posc  it  was  for 
the  Duke. 

"  1  couldn't  think  where  I'd  seen  him  before,  and  now 
I  remember — jind  there's  a  photograph  of  him  in  a  stall 
at  the  (/rystal  Palace.  Have  you  seen  it  ?  Not  that  he 
looks  like  a  girl  now  I  Not  a  bit !  I  sn])pose  you're  very 
fond  of  him?  Ida  is!  She  talks  as  mnch  about  Mr. 
Josselin  as  she  does  about  yoii  '.     /Jitrfi/,  she  calls  him." 

"  Yes,  indeed  ;  he's  like  our  brother.  We  were  boys 
at  school  together  in  France.  My  sister  calls  him  //ice 
and  tJi,ou  J  in  French,  you  know." 


',l« 


> 

M 

H 


H 


§ 


160 


"And  was  he  always  like  that — funny  and  jolly  and 
good-natured  V 

"Always;  he  hasn't  changed  a  bit." 

"And  is  he  very  sincere  T' 

Just  then  Barty  came  on  to  the  balcony :  it  was  time 
to  go.  My  sister  had  been  fetched  away  already  (in  her 
gondola). 

So  Barty  made  his  farewells,  and  bent  his  gallant, 
irresistible  look  of  mirthful  chivalry  and  delicate  middle- 
aged  admiration  on  Leah's  upturned  face,  and  her  eyes 
looked  up  more  piercing  and  blacker  than  ever ;  and  in 
each  of  them  a  little  high  light  shone  like  a  point  of  in- 
terrogation— the  reflection  of  some  white  window-curtain, 
I  sujjpose ;  and  I  felt  cold  all  down  my  back. 

(Barty's  daughter,  Mary  Trevor,  often  sings  a  little 
song  of  De  Musset's.     It  is  quite  lovely,  and  begins  : 


"Beau  chevalier  qui  partez  pour  la  guerre, 
Qu'allez-vous  faire 
Si  loin  d'ici  ? 
Voyez-vous  pas  que  la  nuit  est  profonde, 
Et  que  le  monde 
N'est  que  souci  ?" 


It  is  called  "  La  Chanson  de  Barberine,"  and  I  never 
hear  it  but  I  think  of  that  sweet  little  white  virginal 
point  (Vintcrrogrtion,  and  Barty  going  away  to  France.) 
Then  he  thanked  Mrs.  Gibson  and  said  pretty  things, 
and  finally  called  Mr.  Gibson  dreadful  French  fancy- 
names:  "Cascameche — moutardier  du  pape,  tromblon- 
bolivard,  vieux  coquelicot";  to  each  of  which  the  de- 
lighted Mr.  G.  answered  : 

"  Voos  ayt  oon  oter — voos  ayt  oon  oter  I" 
And  then  Barty  whisked  himself  away  in  a  silver  cloud 
of  glory.     A  good  exit ! 


161 


Outside  was  a  hansom  waiting,  with  a  carpet-bag  on 
the  top,  and  we  got  into  it  and  drove  up  to  Ilarnpstead 
Heath,  to  some  little  inn  called  the  Bull  and  Bush,  near 
North-end. 

Barty  lit  his  pipe,  and  said  : 

**  What  capital  people  !  Hanged  if  they're  not  the 
nicest  people  I  ever  met !" 

"  Yes,"  said  I. 

And  that's  all  that  was  said  during  that  long  drive. 

At  North-end  we  found  two  or  three  otlior  hansoms, 
and  Pepys  and  Ticklots  and  the  little  Hebrew  tenor  art 
student  whose  name  I've  forgotten,  and  several  others. 

We  had  another  supper,  and  made  a  night  of  it.  Tliere 
was  a  piano  in  a  small  room  opening  on  to  a  knid  of  little 
terrace,  with  geraniums,  over  a  bow-window.  We  had 
music  and  singing  of  all  sorts.  Even  /  sang — *'The 
Standard  -  bearer  "  —  and  rather  well.  My  sister  had 
coached  me ;  but  I  did  not  obtain  an  encore. 

The  next  day  dawned,  and  Barty  had  a  wash  and 
changed  his  clothes,  and  wo  walked  all  over  Hampstead 
Heath,  ami  saw  London  lying  in  a  dun  mist,  with  the 
dome  and  gilded  cross  of  St.  Paul's  rising  into  the  pale 
blue  dawn  ;  and  I  thouglit  what  a  beastly  piacj  London 
would  be  without  Barty — but  that  licah  was  there  still, 
safe  and  sound  asleep  in  Tavistock  Square  ! 

Then  back  to  the  inn  for  breakfast.  Barty,  as  usual, 
fresh  as  paint.     Happy  Barty,  olf  to  Paris  ! 

Ami  then  we  all  drove  down  to  London  Bridge  to  see 

him  safe  into  the  Boulogtic  steamer.     All   liis  luggage 

was  on  board.     His  late   sohlier-servant  was  tlicre  —  a 

splendid  fellow,  chosen  for  his  Knigth  and  breadth  as  well 

as  his  fidelity;  also  the  Snowdrop,  who  was  hichrymose 

and  in  great  grief.     It  was  a  most  alfectionate  farewell 

all  round, 
u 


162 


'M^iood-bye,  Rob.     /won  tluit  toss — didWt  I  ?'' 

Oddly  enough,  /was  thinking  of  tliat,  and  didn't  like  it. 

*'  What  rot !  it's  oidy  a  joke,  old  fellow  !"  said  Barty. 

All  this  about  an  innocent  little  girl  just  fifteen,  the 
daughter  of  a  low  -  comedy  Jolm  (iilpin:  a  still  some- 
what gaunt  little  girl,  whose  budding  charms  of  color, 
shape,  and  surface  were  already  such  that  it  didn't  matter 
whether  she  were  good  or  bad,  gentle  or  simple,  rich  or 
poor,  sensible  or  an  ntter  fool. 

C'est  toujours  comme  (;a  ! 

Wo  watched  the  steamer  pick  its  snnny  way  down  the 
Thames,  with  IJarty  waving  Iiis  hat  by  tiie  man  at  the 
wheel  ;  and  I  walked  westward  with  tlu^  little  Hebrew 
artist,  who  was  so  affected  at  parting  with  his  hero  that 
he  had  tears  in  his  lovely  voice.  It  was  not  till  I  had 
(complimented  him  on  his  wonderful  B-llat  that  he  got 
consoled  ;  and  he  talked  about  himself,  and  his  li-llat, 
and  his  middle  (r,  and  his  physical  strength,  and  his  eye 
for  color,  all  tlie  way  from  the  ^Mansion  House  to  the 
Foundling  JTospital  ;  when  we  parted,  and  he  went 
straight  to  his  dniwing-board  at  the  JJritish  Museum — 
an  anticlinuix  ! 

I  found  mv  mother  and  sister  at  their  late  breakfast, 
and  was  scolded  ;  and  I  told  tliem  Barty  had  got  olf, 
and  wouldn't  come  back  for  long — it  might  not  be  for 
years  ! 

*'  Tliank  Ilcav^u  !"  said  my  dear  mother,  and  I  was  not 
pleased. 

Says  my  sister  : 

"  Do  you  know,  he's  actually  stolen  Leah's  photograph, 
that  she  gave  me  for  my  birthday,  lie  asked  me  for  it 
and  T  wouldn't  give  it  him — ami  it's  gone!" 

Then  I  washed  and  put  on  my  work-a-day  clothes,  and 
went  straight  to  Barge   Viird,  BucklcM'sbury,  ami  nuide 


163 


myself  a  bed  on  the  floor  with  my  great-coat,  and  slept 
all  day. 


Oh  lieavens  !  what  a  dull  book  this  would  be,  and 
how  dismally  it  would  drag  its  weary  lengtli  along,  if  it 
weren't  all  about  the  author  of  Sat'domfx! 

But  is  there  a  lost  corner  anywhere  in  this  planet 
where  P]nglish  is  spoken  (or  French)  in  which  lite 
MarficDi  won't  be  bought  and  treasured  and  spelt  over 
and  over  again  like  a  novel  by  Dickens  or  Scott  (or  Du- 
mas)— for  Josselin's  dear  sake  I  What  a  fortune  my 
publishers  would  make  if  I  were  not  a  man  of  busiiu^ss 
and  they  were  not  the  best  aiul  most  generous  publishers 
in  the  world  !  And  all  Josselin's  publishers — French, 
English,  (jerman,  and  what  not — down  to  modern  San- 
scrit !  What  millionaircfc; — if  it  hadn't  been  for  this  lit- 
tle busy  bee  of  a  Bob  Maurice  ! 

Poor  Barty  !     I  am  here  !  a  bon  chat,  bon  rat ! 

And  what  on  earth  do  /  want  a  fortune  for  ?  Barty's 
dead,  and  I've  got  so  much  more  than  I  need,  who  am  of 
a  frugal  mind — and  what  I've  got  is  ull  going  to  little 
Josselins,  who  have  already  got  so  much  more  than  they 
need,  what  with  their  late  father  and  me ;  and  my  sister, 
who  is  a  widow  and  childless,  and  ''riche  a  millions" 
too  !  and  cares  for  nobody  in  all  this  wide  world  but  lit- 
tle Josselins,  who  don't  care  for  money  in  the  least,  and 
would  sooner  work  for  their  living — even  break  stones  on 
the  road — anything  sooner  than  loaf  aiul  laze  and  loll 
through  life.  We  all  have  to  give  most  of  it  away — not 
that  I  need  proclaim  it  from  the  house-tops  !  It  is  but  a 
dull  and  futile  hobby,  giving  away  to  those  who  deser/e  ; 
they  soon  leave  off  deserving. 

How  fortunate  that  so  much  money  is  really  wanted 
by  people  who  don't  deserve  it  any  more  than  I  do ;  aixd 


164 


who,  besides,  are  so  weak  and  stupid  and  lazy  and  hon- 
est— or  so  incurably  dislionest — that  they  can't  make  it 
for  themselves  !  I  have  to  look  after  a  good  many  of 
these  people.  Barty  was  fond  of  them,  honest  or  not. 
They  are  so  incurably  prolific  ;  and  so  was  he,  poor  dear 
boy  !  but,  oh,  the  diit'erence  !  Grapes  don't  grow  on 
thorns,  nor  figs  on  thistles  ! 

Fm  a  thorn,  alas  !  in  my  own  side,  more  often  than 
not — and  a  thistle  in  the  sides  of  a  good  many  donkeys, 
whom  I  feed  because  they're  too  stupid  or  too  lazy  to 
feed  themselves  !  But  at  least  I  know  my  place,  and  the 
knowledge  is  more  bother  to  me  than  all  my  money,  and 
the  race  of  Maurice  ^'  '11  soon  be  extinct. 


When  Barty  went  to  foreign  parts,  on  the  2d  of  May, 
185G,  I  didn't  trouble  myself  about  such  (juestions  as 
these. 

Life  was  so  horribly  stale  in  London  wnthout  Barty 
that  I  became  a  quite  exemplary  young  man  wiien  I 
woke  up  from  that  long  nap  on  tlie  flooi-  of  my  labora- 
tory in  Barge  Yard,  Bucklcrsbury ;  a  reformed  charac- 
ter :  from  sheer  grief,  I  really  believe! 

I  thought  of  many  things  —  ugly  things  —  very  ugly 
things  indeed — and  meant  to  have  dont'  with  them.  I 
thought  of  some  very  handsome  things  too  —  a  pair  of 
beautiful  crown-jewels,  each  rare  as  the  black  tulip — 
and  in  each  of  them  a  bright  little  sign  lik(^  this  :  ? 

1  don't  believe  I  ever  gave  my  father  another  bad 
quarter  of  an  hour  from  that  moment.  1  oven  went  to 
I'liurch  on  Sunday  mornings  quite  regularly  ;  not  his 
own  somewhat  severe  place  of  worship,  it  is  true  !  But 
the  Foundling  Hospital.  There,  in  the  gallery,  would  I 
sit  with  my  sister,  and  listen  to  Miss  Dolby  and  Miss 
Louisa  Pyne  and  Mr.  Law  ler  the  bass — and  a  tenor  and 


■9 


165 


'     ,:  I, 


alto  whose  names  I  cannot  recall ;  and  I  thought  they 
sang  as  tljey  ought  to  have  sung,  and  was  deeply  moved 
and  comj  rted — more  tlian  by  any  preachments  in  the 
world;  and  just  in  the  opposite  gallery  sat  Leah  with 
her  mother*  and  1  grew  fond  of  nice  clean  little  bo}s 
and  girls  wlio  sing  pretty  hymns  in  nnisun;  and  after- 
wards I  watched  them  eat  their  roast  beef,  small  mites  of 
three  and  four  or  live,  some  of  them,  and  thought  how 
touching  it  dl  was — I  don't  know  why  •  Love  or  grief? 
or  that  toncli  of  nature  that  makes  the  whole  world  kin 
at  about  1  p.m.  on  Sunday  ? 

One  would  think  that  Barty  had  exerted  a  bad  infla- 
ence  on  me,  since  he  seems  to  have  kept  me  out  of  all 
this  that-  was  so  sweet  and  new  and  fresh  and  whole- 
some ! 

He  would  have  been  just  as  susceptible  to  such  im- 
l)ressions  as  I;  even  more  so,  if  the  same  chance  had 
arisen  for  him — for  he  was  singularly  foiul  of  children, 
the  smaller  and  the  poorer  the  better,  even  gutter  chil- 
dren !  and  their  poor  mothers  loved  him,  he  was  so 
jolly  and  generous  and  kind. 

Sometimes  I  got  a  letter  from  him  in  Blaze,  my  father's 
shorthand  cipher  ;  it  was  always  brief  au'l  bright  and 
hopeful,  and  full  of  jokes  and  funny  sketches.  And 
I  answered  him  in  Blaze  that  was  long  and  probably 
dull. 

All  tliat  I  will  tell  of  him  now  is  not  taken  from  his 
Blaze  letters,  but  from  what  he  has  told  me  later,  by 
word  of  moutli — for  he  was  as  fond  of  talking  of  himself 
as  I  of  listenin"'  —  since  he  was  droll  and  sincere  and 
without  guile  or  vanity  ;  and  would  have  been  just  as 
sympathetic  a  listener  as  I,  if  I  had  cared  to  talk  about 
Mr.  Robert  Maurice,  of  Barge  Yard,  Bucklersbury.  Be- 
sides, I  am  good  at  hearing   between    the  words   and 


166 


reading  between  the  lines,  and  all  that — and  love  to  ex- 
ercise tliis  faculty. 

Well,  he  reached  Paris  in  due  time,  and  took  a  small 
bedroom  on  a  third  floor  in  the  Hue  du  Faubourg  Pois- 
sonniere — over  a  cheap  hatters  —  opposite  the  Conser- 
vatoire de  Musique. 

On  the  first  night  he  was  awoke  by  a  terrible  invasion 
— such  malodorous  swarms  of  all  sizes,  from  a  tiny  brown 
speck  to  a  full-grown  lentil,  that  tliey  darkened  his  bed  ; 
and  he  slept  on  the  tiled  floor  after  making  an  island  of 
himself  by  pouring  cold  water  all  round  him  as  a  kind 
of  moat ;  and  so  he  slept  for  a  week  of  nights,  until  he 
had  managed  to  poison  off  most  of  those  invaders  with 
2)0udn'  inKC'clicide  .  .  .  "■  niort  aux  punaises  !" 

In  the  daytime  lie  first  of  all  went  for  a  swim  at  the 
Passy  baths — an  immense  joy,  full  of  the  ghosts  of  by- 
gone times  ;  then  he  would  spend  the  rest  of  his  day  re- 
visiting old  haunts  —  often  sitting  on  the  edge  of  tlie 
stone  fount.'iin  in  the  rond-point  of  the  Avenue  du  Prince 
Imjjerial,  or  de  llmpcratrice,  or  whatever  it  was  —  to 
gaze  comfortably  at  the  outside  of  the  old  school,  which 
was  now  a  pensionnat  de  demoiselles  :  soon  to  be  pulled 
down  and  make  room  for  a  new  house  altogether,  lie 
did  not  attempt  to  invade  these  precincts  of  maiden  in- 
nocence ;  but  gazed  and  gazed,  and  remembered  and  re- 
alized and  dreamt:  it  all  gave  him  unspeakable  excite- 
ment, and  a  strange  tender  wistful  melancholy  delight 
for  which  there  is  no  name.  Je  coniuiis  9a  !  I  also, 
ghostlike,  have  paced  round  the  haunts  of  my  child- 
hood. 

When  the  joy  of  this  faded,  as  it  always  must  when 
indulged  in  too  freely,  he  amused  himself  by  sitting  in 
his  bedroom  and  painting  Leah's  portrait,  enlarged  and 


167 


in  oils  ;  pjirtly  from  llie  vory  viviil  iniM.izo  ho  litul  pre- 
served of  her  ill  lii.s  mind,  partly  from  the  stolen  jihoto- 
jS^ruph.  At  lirst  he  ftot  it  very  like;  then  he  lost  all  the 
likeness  and  could  not  recover  it  ;  and  he  worked  and 
Avorked  till  ho  i^ot  stupid  over  it,  and  his  mental  image 
faded  quite  away. 

But  for  a  time  this  minute  exaniinatioii  of  the  [ihoto- 
graph  (throug-h  a  [)owerful  lens  he  hougiit  on  purpose), 
and  this  delving'  search  into  his  own  deep  consciousness 
of  her,  into  his  keen  rememhrance  of  every  detail  of 
feature  and  color  and  shade  of  expression,  made  him 
realize  and  idealize  and  foresee  what  the  face  might  be 
some  day — and  what  its  owner  might  become. 

And  a  horror  of  his  life  in  Ijondon  caiim  over  him  like 
a  revelation — a  blast — a  horrible  surjirise  !  Mere  sin  is 
ugly  when  it's  no  more  ;  and  ,vo  beastly  to  remember, 
unless  the  sinner  be  thoroughly  acclimatized  ;  and  IJarty 
was  only  twenty-two,  and  hated  deceit  and  cruelty  in 
any  form.  Oh,  poor,  weak,  frail  fellow-sinner — whether 
N'ivien  or  (Juinevere!  How  sadly  unjust  that  loathing 
and  satiety  and  harsh  male  contempt  should  kill  man's 
ruth  and  pity  for  thee,  that  wast  so  kind  to  man  !  what 
a  hellish  after-math  I 

Poor  Barty  hadn't  the  ghost  of  a  notion  how  to  set  to 
work  about  becoming  a  painter,  and  didn't  know  a  soul 
in  Paris  he  cared  to  go  and  consult,  althougli  there 
were  many  people  he  might  have  discovered  whom  he 
had  known:  old  school-fellows^  and  friends  of  the  Archi- 
bald lioluins — who  would  have  been  only  too  ghul. 

So  he  took  to  wandering  listlessly  about,  lunching  and 
dining  at  cheap  suburban  restaurants,  taking  long  walks, 
sitting  on  benches,  leaning  over  parapets,  and  longing 
to  tell  peo})le  who  he  was,  his  age,  how  little  money  he'd 
got,  what  lots  of  friends  he  had  in  England,  what  a  nice 


if 


168 


little  English  girl  lie  knew,  whose  portniit  he  didn't 
know  liow  to  paint — any  idiotic  nonnense  that  came  into 
his  head,  so  at  least  he  might  talk  about  something  or 
somebody  that  interested  him. 

There  is  no  city  like  Paris,  no  crowd  like  a  Parisian 
crowd,  to  make  you  feel  your  solitude  if  you  are  alone 
in  its  mivlst ! 

At  night  he  read  Frendi  novels  in  bed  and  drank  eau 
sucree  and  smoked  till  he  was  sleepy  ;  then  he  cunningly 
put  out  his  light,  and  lit  it  again  in  a  quarter  of  an  hour 
or  so,  and  exploded  what  remained  of  the  invading 
hordes  as  they  came  crawling  doAvn  the  wall  from  above. 
Their  numbers  Avero  reduced  at  last ;  they  were  disap- 
pearing. Then  he  put  out  his  candle  for  good,  and 
went  to  sleep  hai)py — having  at  least  scored  for  once  in 
the  twenty-four  hours.     Mort  aux  punaises  ! 

Twice  he  went  to  the  Opera  C'onu([ue,  and  saw  Richard 
(J(vu)'  (It  Lio}i  ami  le  Pre  aiix  (Uerci^  from  the  gallery, 
and  was  disa[)pointed,  and  couldn't  understand  why  he 
shouldn't  sing  as  well  as  that  —  he  thought  he  could 
sing  much  better,  ])oor  fellow  !  he  had  a  delightful 
voice,  and  (di.d'in,  and  the  sense  of  tune  and  rhythm, 
ami  could  please  quite  wonderfully  —  l)ut  he  iiad  no 
technical  knowledge  whatever,  aiul  couldn't  be  d(q)en(led 
upon  to  sing  a  song  twice  the  same  !  lie  trusted  to  the 
ins[)iraiion  of  the  moment — like  an  anuiteur. 

Of  course  he  had  to  l)e  very  economical,  even  about 
candle  ends,  and  almost  lilted  such  ec^onomy  for  a.  change ; 
but  he  got  sick  of  his  loneliness,  beyond  expression — ho 
WHS  a  tish  out  of  water. 

'IMien  he  took  it  into  his  head  to  go  and  copy  a  pu't- 
ure  at  the  Louvre — an  ohl  nuister  ;  in  this  he  felt  he 
could  not  go  wrong,  lie  obtained  the  necessary  per- 
mission, bought  a  canvas  six  feet  higli,  and  sat  himsoU' 


169 


or 


before  u  picture  by  JS'ieolas  Poussiii,  i  tliiiik  :  a  group  of 
angelic  woiiien  carrying  another  woman  though  the  air 
up  to  heaven. 

They  were  not  very  much  to  lii.s  taste,  but  more  so 
than  any  others,  ilis  (;liief  notion  about  women  in 
pictures  was  that  they  shoukl  l)e  very  beautiful — since 
they  cannot  make  themselves  agreeable  in  any  other 
way  ;  and  they  are  not  always  so  in  the  works  of  the 
great  masters.  At  least,  he  thought  not.  These  are 
matters  of  taste,  of  course. 

He  had  no  notion  of  how  to  divide  his  canvas  into 
squares — a  device  by  which  one  makes  it  easier  to  get 
the  copy  into  proper  proportion,  it  seems.  He  began  by 
sketching  the  head  of  tlie  principal  woman  rougidy  in 
the  middle  of  his  canvas,  and  then  he  wanted  to  begin 
painting  it  at  once — he  was  so  impatient. 

Students,  female  students  especially,  came  and  inter- 
ested themselves  in  his  work,  aiul  some  rapiiis  asked 
him  questions,  and  tried  to  hel[)  him  and  give  i;im  tips. 
But  the  more  they  told  him,  the  more  h(d[)less  and 
hop(dess  he  grew.  He  soon  felt  conscious  he  was  Ik!- 
coming  ([uite  a  funny  man  again — a  centre  of  inter- 
est— in  a  new  line;  but  it  gave  liim  no  pleasure  wliat- 
ever. 

After  a  week  of  this  mistaken  drudgery  he  sat  despond- 
ent one  afternoon  on  a  bench  in  tlie  Champs  Klysees  and 
wat(died  the  gay  [x'ople,  and  thought  him.seir  vei'v  <h)wn 
on  his  luck  ;  he  was  tired  and  hot  and  miseraltle  it  was 
the  beginning  of  duly.  If  lu^  bad  known  Ikjw,  lie  would 
almost  have  siied  tears.  J  lis  loneliness  was  not.  to  be 
borne,  and  his  longing  to  feel  oiu;e  nujre  the  norlli  had 
become  a  (dironic  aidus 

A  tall,  thin,  shabby  nuin  oaim^  and  sat  by  his  side,  ami 
made  himself  a  cigarette,  and  hummed  a  tune— a  well- 


170 


known  qiuirtier-latiii  soii^- — uhoiit  **.M()U  AkU'goiide,  ma 
blon(l(?/'  iiiid  "M;i  KodoL^unc,  iiui  bruuc.''' 

Biirty  just  ghiiiccd  at  this  jovial  pcr.soii  and  found 
lie  didn't  look  jovial  at  all,  Uut  rallier  sad  and  seedy 
aiul  out  a;  ('!i)o\vs — hy  no  in"ans  (d"  the  kind  that  the 
liiir  Aldcgondc  or  her  tlark  sister  would  have  much  to 
say  to. 

Also  that  he  woi'e  very  sti'ong  s(»ccta(des,  and  that  his 
brown  cyt'S,  when  tiiriird  iJarty's  way,  vibrated  with  a 
(|ui(dv^  tremulous  motion  and  sideways  as  it'  they  had 
the  '\gigs." 

Much  moved  and  excited.  i^»ariy  got  up  and  put  out 
his  hand  to  tlu^  strangei-,  and  said  ; 

"l)o]ijoi!r.  Monsieur  iion/ig  I  eoiMiiient  allez-vons  ?" 

Bonzig  opened  his  eyes  at  this  well-di'essed  Briton  (for 
Barty  had  clothes  to  last  hini  a  l''ren(di  lifetinie). 

"  l*ardonne;';-nioi,  monsieur— niaisji'  n'ai  pa.s  riionnour 
de  vous  rtiinett  I'c  !" 

"de  ni"a|)pelle  dosstdin — de  (du'z  Hi'ossard  !" 

"Ah!  Moil  Dieu,  iiion  (dier,  nion  tres-(dior  !''  ,said 
Honzig,  and  got  up  and  sidzed  Harty's  both  hands — and 
all  but  hugged  him. 

"  Mais  (pud  bonheiir  de  vous  revoir  !  dc;  peiise  a  vous 
si  souvenl,  et  a  Ouittebe  I  eonmie  vous  etes  change — et 
quel  beau  gan/nii  vous  eles  I  (,ui  vtuis  aurait  reeiuinu  ! 
Dieu  de  Dieu  —  c'est  un  rcve  !  Je  n'eii  revions  pas  I" 
etc. ,  (de.  .  .  . 

And  (hey  walked  oil"  togtdher,  and  told  the  other  ea(di 
jin  '  pihuneol'  his  history  since  they  partiul;  and  diiu'd  (o- 
getlier  cheaply,  and  spent  a^  haj)i)y  evening  walking  u[) 
and  down  the  b(mlevards,  and  siiKdung  nuiiiy  cigarettes 
— from  the  Madfdeine  to  the  Porte  St. -Martin  and  back — 
again  and  again, 

"Js'un,  moil  <dier  Josselin,"  said  Uonzig,  in  answer  to 


"  '  UONJOUll,   MONPIKUU    liON'/Ui 


172 


a  question  of  Bjirty's— "noii,  1  liave  not  yet  seen  the 
sea  .  .  ;  it  will  corno  in  time.  But  at  least  I  am  no 
longer  a  damned  nslier  (un  sacre  pion  d'etudes)  ;  I  am 
an  artist — un  pointre  de  marines — at  last !  It  is  a  lni|)py 
existence.  I  fear  my  talent  is  not  very  imposing,  but  my 
perseverance  is  exceptional,  and  I  am  only  forty-live. 
Anyhow,  I  am  able  to  support  myself — not  in  s})lendor, 
certainly  ;  but  my  wants  are  few  and  my  liealth  is  per- 
fect. 1  will  put  you  uj)  to  many  things,  my  dear  boy.  .  .  . 
W(^  will  storm  the  citadel  of  fajue  together.  .  .  ." 

Honzig  had  a  garret  somewhere,  and  painted  in  the 
studio  of  a  friend,  not  far  from  liarty's  lodging.  This 
friend,  one  Lirieux,  was  a  very  clever  young  man  —  a 
genius,  according  to  lionzig.  lie  drew  illustrations  on 
wood  with  surprising  (|ui('kness  and  facility  and  verve, 
and  painted  little  oil-])ictures  of  sporting  lil'e — a  garde 
champotre  in  a  wood  with  his  dog,  or  with  his  dog  on  a 
dusty  road,  or  crossing  a  stream,  or  getting  over  a  stile, 
and  so  forth.  The  dog  was  nc^ver  left  out ;  and  these 
things  he  would  sell  for  twenty,  thirty,  even  llt'ty  francs. 
He  painted  very  qui(.'k  and  very  well,  lie  wjis  also  a 
capital  good  fellow,  industrious  and  cultivated  and  re- 
llncd,  and  full  of  self-respect. 

Next  to  his  studio  he  hail  a  small  bedroom  which  he 
shared  with  a  younger  brother,  wlio  had  just  got  a  small 
government  appointnuMit  that  kcjtt  him  at  work  all  day, 
ill  some  ministrre.  In  this  studio  Bonzig  i)ainted  ids 
marines — still  helping  himself  from  L((  Vnaicc  M((ri- 
/////r.  as  he  used'to  do  at  Hrossard's. 

lie  was  good  at  nuists  and  cordage  against  an  even- 
ing sky — "Thcure  oh  le  jaune  de  .\'a(iK':s  ivdlvc  dans  la 
nature,"  as  he  called  il.  lie  was  also  v.  I'llei.l:  a(  foam, 
and  far-oil'  breakers,  and  sea-gulls,  buv  v\'ry  '-ad  at  the 
human   ligure  —  sailors  and   llshermen  and  iheir  wives. 


1T6 


Sometimes  Lirieux  would  put  one  in  for  liim  witli  a 
few  dabs. 

As  soon  as  Bonzig  had  finished  a  picture,  which  dichi't 
take  very  long,  he  carried  it  round,  still  wet,  to  the  small 
dealers,  l)eariiig  it  very  carefully  aloft,  so  as  not  to  smudge 
it.  Sometimes  (if  there  were  a  sailor  by  Lirieux)  he 
would  get  five  or  v\\'.n  ten  francs  for  it ;  and  then  it  was 
"  ^[on  Aldegoiide"  wiLJi  him  all  the  rest  of  the  day;  I'or 
success  always  took  the  form,  in  his  case,  of  nasally  hum- 
ming that  amorous  refrain. 

But  it  very  often  hap])ened  that  he  was  dund),  poor 
fellow — no  supper,  no  song  I 

Lirieux  conceived  such  a  liking  for  Barty  that  he  in- 
sisted on  taking  him  into  his  studio  as  a  pupil-assistant, 
and  setting  him  to  draw  things  under  his  own  eye;  and 
Barty  would  fill  Bon-'.ig's  French  sea  ))ieces  with  Whitby 
fishermen,  aiul  Bonzig  got  to  sing  "  Mon  Aldegonde'' 
much  oftener  than  bi^fore. 

And  chumming  with  these  two  delightful  men,  Barty 
grew  to  know  a  clean,  (|uiet  hii})[»iness  which  more  than 
made  up  for  lost  })ast  sjdendors  and  dissi[)ati()ns  and  gay 
dishonor,  lie  wasn't  even  funny;  they  wouldn't  have 
understood  it.  Well-bred  Frenchmen  don't  unde"s'  i.A 
English  fun  —  not  even  in  the  quartiei'  laliu,  as  a  gen- 
eral rule.  Not  that  it's  too  subtle  for  them  ;  ///(d's  not 
why  I 

Thus  pleasantly  August  wore  itself  awav,  Bonzig  and 
Barty  nearly  always  dining  together  U>\'  aliout  a  franc 
apiece,  iiuilinling  tlu^  waiter,  ami  nol  badly.  lionzig 
knew  all  (he  cheap  eating-houses  in  Paris,  and  what 
iiiwh  was  specially  i-cnownt'd  for — "bonne  friture," 
"fricassee  de  lapiu/'  •  .Hi-nmes  sautees,"  "soupe  aux 
ehoux,"  etc.,  etc. 

Then,  after  dinner,  a  long  walk   and    talk   and   eiga- 


in 


rettes — or  they  would  look  In  at  a  cafe  cliantant,  a  bal  de 
barriore,  the  gallery  of  a  cheap  theatre — then  a  bock  out- 
side a  cafe — et  bonsoir  la  com2)agiiie  ! 

On  September  the  Ist,  Lirienx  and  his  brother  went  to 
see  their  people  in  the  south,  leaving  the  studio  to  Bon- 
zig  and  linrty,  who  nKule  the  most  of  it.  though  greatly 
missing  tlie  genial  young  painter,  both  as  a  companion 
aiul  a  master  and  guide. 

One  beautiful  morning  Bonzig  called  for  Barty  at  his 
cremerie,  and  proposed  they  should  go  l)y  train  to  some 
village  near  Paris  and  spend  a  happy  day  in  the  country, 
lunchiiig  on  bread  and  wiiu^  and  sugar  at  some  little  road- 
side inn.  Bouzig  made  a  great  deal  of  this  lunch.  It  htid 
evidently  [)reoccupied  him. 

Barty  was  only  too  delighted.  They  went  on  the 
imperiale  of  tint  \'ersailles  train  and  got  out  at  Ville 
d'Avray,  and  found  the  kind  of  little  pothouse  they 
wanted.  And  Barty  had  to  admit  that  no  better  hundi 
for  the  })rice  could  be  tlian  "suudl  blue  wine"  sweet- 
ened witi(  sugar,  and  a  huncli  of  bread  sopped  in  it. 

Then  tliey  had  a  long  walk  in  pretty  woods  and  nu'ad- 
ows,  sket(diing  by  the  w;iy,  (diatting  to  laborers  and  sol- 
diers aiul  farm  -  people,  smoking  endless  cigarettes  of  ca- 
poral  ;  and  lliuilly  tliey  got  back  to  Paris  the  way  they 
came — so  Iiungry  that  Barty  propose<l  they  should  treat 
themselves  for  once  to  a  '*  prix-fixe"  dinner  at  Carma- 
gnol's,  in  the  Piissage  Choiseul,  where  they  gave  you  liors- 
d'uuivres,  potage,  tbrc  ■  (M)urses  and  dessert  and  a  bottle 
of  wine,  for  two  fi'ancs  lifty — and  everythir.g  scrujuilous- 
ly  clean. 

So  to  the  Passage  Choiseul  they  went;  but  just  on  the 
threshold  of  the  famous  restiiurant  (which  lilled  the  en- 
tiro  arcade  with  its  Mppctj/jng  exhalations)  lionzig  sud- 
denly remembered   to  \i\<  •^ivat  regret,  that  close  by  there 


175 


lived  Ji  young  rnari'ied  couple  of  the  name  of  Lousteau, 
who  were  great  friends  of  his,  and  who  expected  him  to 
dine  witli  tiu'ni  at  least  once  a  week. 

"■I  haven't  been  near  tlieni  for  a  fortnight,  nion  cher, 
and  it  is  just  tlieir  dinner  iiour.  1  am  afraid  I  must 
really  just  run  in  aiul  eat  an  nilr  dc  ixnih'l  and  a  iitrlii'  mi 
vin  with  them,  and  give  them  of  my  news,  or  tliey  will 
be  mortally  otfendeil.  Ill  Ix'  buck  with  you  just  when 
you  are  'cnfrr  hi  jxiirr  el  /e  //■otiitii/c' — so,  sans  adieu  I" 
and  he  bolted. 

i*)arty  went  in  and  sehK'ted  his  Tuenu  *,  and  waiting  for 
his  hors-d'ceuvre,  he  just  peeped  out  of  tlu^  door  and 
looked  up  ami  down  the  ;irc;ide.  which  was  :ilways  festive 
and  lively  at  that  hour. 

To  his  great  surprise  lie  s:iw  l)0!izig  leisurely  flaning 
about  with  his  cigarette  in  iiis  mouth,  his  hamls  in  his 
pockets,  his  long  spectacled  nose  in  the  air — gazing  at 
the  shop  windows.  Suddenly  the  good  man  dived  into 
a  baker's  shop,  and  came  out  again  in  half  a  minute  with 
a  large  brown  roll,  and  began  to  muncli  it — still  gazing 
at  the  sho[)  wimlows,  and  ap[)arently  <|uite  content. 

Harty  rushed  after  and  caught  hold  of  him,  an<l  breath- 
lessly hea[)ed  ])itter  reproaches  on  hini  for  his  basis  and 
unfriendly  want  of  (jonlldencc — snatclnMl  his  roll  and 
threw  it  away,  dragged  him  by  main  force  into  Carma- 
guol's,  aiul  ma»''' liiin  order  the  diniun'  he  prert'rred  and 
sit  opposite. 

"  ^^a  foi.  mon  (du-r  !"  said  lioiizig — "  I  own  to  you  that 
I  am  almost  at  the  end  oi  mv  i-isoiirces  U<r  the  moment 
— and  idso  Ihnt  the  pi'ospeet  <d'  u  g'X,  1  dinner  in  your 
amiable  coi.;;'*iiiy  is  tlie  rt-verse  id  'li^agreeable  to  nu'. 
I  thank  you  in  advarnfae,  with  all  niy  heart  I" 

"My  dear  M*«ieur  l5*/fizi^,"  says  f»arty,  "you  >vill 
wound  me  deej>Iy  if  you  dkrii't  look  on  me  like  a  brother, 


170 


as  I  do  you  ;  I  can't  tell  you  how  deeply  you  have  wound- 
ed me  already  !  Give  me  your  word  of  honor  that  you 
will  share  ma  mangoaille  with  me  till  I  haven't  a  sou  left !" 

And  so  they  made  it  up,  and  had  a  capital  dinner  and 
a  capital  evening,  and  Barty  insisted  that  in  future  they 
should  always  mess  together  at  his  expense  till  better 
days— and  they  did. 

Hut  Barty  found  that  his  own  money  was  just  giving 
out,  and  wrote  to  his  baidvors  in  London  for  more. 
Somehow  it  didn't  arrive  for  nearly  a  week  ;  and  they 
knew  at  last  what  it  was  to  dine  for  five  sous  each  {'Ihd.) — 
with  loss  of  appetite  just  before  the  meal  instead  of  after. 

Of  course  Barty  might  very  well  have  pawned  his 
watch  or  his  scarf-pin  ;  l)ut  whiitcver  trinkets  lie  pos- 
sessed had  been  given  him  by  his  beloved  Lady  Archi- 
bald— everything  i)awnablc  he  had  in  the  world,  even  his 
guitar  !  And  he  could  not  bear  the  idea  of  taking  them 
to  the  "Mont  de  Piete." 

80  he  was  well  pleased  one  Sunibiv  morning  when  his 
remittance  arrived,  and  he  went  in  search  of  his  friend, 
that  they  might  compensate  them>-  'S  for  a  week's 
abstinence  by  a  famous  dejeuner.  Bui  Bonzig  was  not 
to  be  fouiul ;  and  Barty  spent  that  day  aloiui,  and  gorged 
in  solitude  ami  guzzled  in  silence — moult  tristement,  a 
Vanglaise. 

lie  was  aroused  from  his  first  sleep  that  night  by  the 
irruption  of  Bonzig  in  a  tremendous  state  of  excitement. 
It  seems  that  a  certain  Baron  (whose  nsuue  I've  forgot- 
ten), and  vvdiose  little  son  the  ex-usher  had  (Uice  coacihed 
in  early  Latin  and  (freek,  had  writt(ui,  bi'gging  him  to 
call  and  see  him  at  his  chateau  near  Melun  ;  thiit  Bon- 
zig had  walked  there  that  very  day — thirty  miles  ;  and 
founu  the  Baron  was  leaving  next  mornimr  for  a  villa 


he  possessed  i\ear  Etr.  tat,  and  wished  him  to  join  him 


bed  h 


ITI 


there  the  d.iy  after,  and  stay  with  liim  for  a  coiipk^  of 
months — to  coach  his  son  in  more  chissics  for  a  couple 
of  hours  in  the  forenoon. 

Bonzig  was  to  (lis]»ose  of  the  rest  of  his  time  as  he 
liked,  cxce[)t  that  he  'was  coinuiissioiicd  to  paint  six 
''marines''  for  the  baro!iiul  diiiiiii^--room  ;  and  the  liaron 
had  most  considerately  given  him  four  hundred  francs  in 
advance ! 

''So,  then,  to-morrow  afternoon  at  six.  my  dear  Josse- 
lin,  you  dine  with  m<\  for  once  —  not  in  the  I'assji^c 
Choisenl  this  time,  [rood  as  it  is  there  !  But  at  Bahct's.  en 
plein  Palais  Royal!  un  jour  de  se})aratioii,  vous  compre- 
nez  !  the  dinner  will  be  li^ood,  I  promise  you  :  a  calf's 
head  a  la  vinaigrette — they  are  famous  for  that,  at  Jia- 
bet's  —  and  for  their  Pauillac  and  their  >St.-Kst('phe  ; 
at  least,  I'm  told  so!  nous  en  fcrons  I'experience.  .  .  . 
And  now  I  bid  you  good-night,  as  I  have  to  l)e  up  before 
the  day — so  many  things  to  buy  and  settle  and  arrange 
— first  of  all  to  procure  myself  a  'nuiillot'  and  a  'pei- 
gnoir,' ami  shoes  for  the  beach  !  I  know  where  to  get 
these  things  much  cheaper  than  at  the  seaside.  Oh  !  la 
mer,  la  mer  !  Enfin  jc  vais  pi(iuer  ma  tete  [take  my 
header]  la  dedans — cf  pds  phis  tard  (jii'dprh-dctnaiu  .soir. 
...  A  demain,  tres-cher  cauiiiradc — six  lieures — chez 
Bid)et  r 

And,  delirious  with  joyful  anticipations,  the  good  Bon- 
zig  riin  away — tdl  but  "piquant  sa  tete  "  down  the  nar- 
row staircase,  and  whistling  "  Mon  Aldegonde"  at  the 
very  top  of  his  whistle  ;  and  even  outside  he  shouted  : 


la 


"  Ouih'  —mi! — sckilf  ro, 
sckile  ro, 
sckile  ro  ... 
Ouilc — mc; — sckllc!  ro 
Tilt  brinn  my  laddo  ome !' 


17S 


He  liJid  to  1)C  .silenceil  l)y  ;i  Ft-rgent  dc  villc. 

AjkI  next  'lay  tlicy  diiuil  at  I5a))t't's,  and  Uoiizi"^  was 
so  liappy  he  liad  to  bcLi;  purdnu  I'or  lii.s  want  of  iVeIiiii>' 
at  seeiniii'^  so  cxiibci-aiil  "  iiii  iour  de  separation  !  niais 
veiiez  anssi,  Josselin — nous  pi((uerons  nos  tetes  ensemble, 
et  nau'crons  de  eonserve.  .  .  ."' 

lint  I»arty  could  not  all'ord  this  little  outinpf.  and  lie 
was  very  sad — with  a  sadiiess  that  not  all  the  Pauillae 
and  St.-]']ott'phe  in  M.  liabet's  cellars  could  have  dis- 
pelled. 

JIc  made  his  friend  a  present  oF  a  beautiful  pair  of 
razors — JMu^'lish  razors,  \vbieh  he  iu>  lonii'cr  needed,  since 
lie  no  lonu'cr  meant  to  shave — "  en  si^ne  de  moii  deuil  !" 
as  lu!  said,  'i'hey  had  been  the  ii;il'i  of  Lord  Archibald 
in  happier  days.  Alas  I  he  had  forii-otten  to  uive  his 
uncle  Archie  the  traditional  halfpenny,  but,  1k^  took 
good  care  to  extra<'t  a  sou  from  le  (ii'and  llonzig  1 

So  ended  this  little  epistxh'  in  l»arty's  life,  lie  never 
saw  Bonzig  again,  nor  heard  from  him,  ami  of  him  only 
once  nnn'e.     That  sou  was  wastetl. 

Jt  was  at  Blaidvenberghe,  on  the  coast  of  Ijclgium, 
that  he  at  last  had  ]iews  of  him — a  year  later — at  the 
cafe  on  the  plage,  a»id  in  such  an  odd  and  unexpected 
manner  that  1  ( an't  help  telling  how  it  lia[)penod. 

One  afternoon  a  corner  of  tlu'  big  colfei'-room  was 
being  arranged  for  private  theatricals,  in  which  IJarty 
was  to  perform  the  part  of  a  waitei'.  He  had  just  bor- 
rowed the  real  waiter's  jacket  ami  a[)r()n,  and  was  dust- 
ing the  little  tables  for  the  amusement  of  Mile.  Solange, 
the  dam(^  de  comptoir.  and  of  the  waiter,  l*ros[)er,  who 
had  on  Barty's  own  shooting-ja(d<et. 

Suddeidy  an  old  gentleman  came  in  and  beckoned  to 
Barty  and  ordered  u  demi-tasse  and  petit-vci're.  There 
were  no  other  I'ustomers  at  that  hour. 


'  DEMI-TASSE— VOILA,   M'hIICUU  ' 


^, 


^. 


IMAGE  EVALUATION 
TEST  TARGET  (MT-3) 


^ 


.<  ^> 


||_U_ 
11.25 


iii|2i    125 
■^  Kiii   12.2 


1 2.0 

u  1^ 


Hiotographic 

^.Sciences 

Corporation 


33  WIST  MAIN  STRUT 

WnSTH.N.Y.  MSIO 

(716)  t73-4S03 


^^4^ 


'^ 


180 


Mile.  Solange  was  horrified  ;  but  IJarty  insisted  on 
waiting  on  the  old  gentleman  in  person,  and  lielpcd  him 
to  his  coftce  and  i)ousse  -  cai'e  witii  all  the  humorous 
grace  I  can  so  well  imagine,  and  handed  him  the  lu- 
di'penthnin'  lU'Ujv,  jind  went  back  to  superintend  the  ar- 
rangements for  the  coming  i)lay. 

Presently  the  old  g(?ntleman  looked  up  from  his  paper 
and  became  interested,  and  soon  he  grew  uneasy,  and 
finally  he  rose  and  went  up  to  liarty  and  bowed,  and  said 
(in  French,  of  course): 

"Monsieur,  1  have  made  a  very  stupul  mistake.  I  am 
near-sighted,  and  that  must  be  my  tipology.  Besides, 
you  liave  revenged  yourself  'avec  tant  d'esprit,^  that  you 
v/ill  not  bear  me  rdncin/c!  May  i  jisk  you  to  accept  my 
card,  with  my  sincere  excuses  ?  .  .  ." 

Ami  lo  !  it  was  IJonzig's  famous  iiaroii !  15arty  in)me- 
diately  inquired  after  his  lost  friend. 

"  Bonzig  ?  Ah,  monsieur  —  what  a  terrible  tragedy  1 
Poor  Jionzig,  the  best  of  men — Ih^  came  to  me  at  Etre- 
tat.  1  iiivited  him  there  from  sheer  friendship  !  lie  was 
drowned  the  very  evening  he  arrived. 

**ire  went  aiul  bathed  after  sunset— on  his  own  re- 
si)onsibility  and  without  mentioning  it  to  any  one.  JIow 
it  happened  I  don't  know  —  Jiobody  knows.  He  was  a 
good  swimmer,  I  believe,  but  very  blind  without  his 
glasses.  He  undressed  behind  a  rock  on  the  shore, 
which  is  ag'iinst  the  regulations.  His  body  was  not 
fouiul  till  two  days  after,  three  leagues  down  the 
coast. 

*'  lie  had  an  aged  mother,  who  came  to  T^ltretat.  It 
was  harrowing  !  They  were  people  who  had  seen  better 
days,"  etc.,  etc.,  etc. 

And  so  no  more  of  le  (J rand  Bonzig. 

Mor  did  Barty  ever  again  meet  liirieux,  in  whose  ox- 


181 


istence  ii  chancre  luicl  also  been  wrought  by  fortune  ;  but 
whetlier  for  good  or  evil  I  can't  say  lie  was  taken  to 
Italy  and  (Jrcoce  l)y  a  wealthy  relative.  What  happened 
to  him  there — whether  he  ever  came  back,  or  succeeded 
or  failed  —  liarty  never  heard!  lie  dropped  out  of 
Barty's  life  as  completely  as  if  he  had  been  drowned  like 
his  old  friend. 

These  episodes,  lik'j  many  otliers  past  a!id  to  come  in 
this  bi(>gra[)liy,  had  no  particular  inlluence  on  Barty 
Josselin's  career,  and  no  reference  to  them  is  to  be  found 
in  anything  he  has  ever  written.  j\Iy  oidy  reason  for 
telling  them  is  that  I  found  them  so  interesting  when 
he  told  me,  and  so  characteristic!  of  himself.  He  was 
"bon  raconteur."  I'm  afraid  I'm  not,  and  that  I've 
lugged  these  good  people  in  by  the  hair  of  the  head; 
but  I'm  doing  my  best.  "  La  i)lus  belle  lille  au  moude 
ne  pent  donuer  que  ce  (prelle  a  !" 

I  look  to  my  editor  to  edit  nie--and  to  my  illustrator 
to  pull  me  through. 


That  autumn  (18:»(;)  my  father  went  to  France  for  six 
weeks,  on  business.  My  sister  Ida  went  with  the  (iib- 
sons  to  Uamsgate,  and  I  remained  in  London  witii  my 
mother.  I  did  my  best  to  replace  my  father  in  Barge 
Yard,  and  when  he  came  back  he  was  so  pleased  with  nie 
(and  I  think  with  himself  also)  that  he  gave  me  twenty 
[)ounds,  and  said,  "(Jo  to  Paris  for  a  week,  Hob,  and  see 
Barty,  and  give  him  tliis,  with  my  love." 

And  "  this"  was  another  twenty-pound  note,  lie  had 
never  given  me  such  a  sum  in  my  life — not  a  (piarter  of 
it;  and  "Hliis"  was  the  lirst  time  he  .'tad  ever  tipped 
Barty. 

Things  were  beginning  at  last  to  go  well  with  liim. 
Ho  had  arranged  to  sell  the  vintages  of  Bordeaux  uud 


182 


Cliainpjififne,  as  well  us  those  of  Hiirgundy ;  and  was 
tl reaming  of  those  of  (Jerniany  and  l'ortii,i>^al  and  Spain. 
Fortune  was  beginning?  to  smile  on  Barge  Yard,  and  ours 
was  to  become  tlie  largest  wine  business  in  the  world — 
comme  tout  un  chacun  sait. 

I  started  for  Paris  that  very  night,  and  knoctked  at 
Harty's  bedroom  door  by  six  next  morning  ;  it  was  hard- 
ly daylight — a  morning  to  be  rcinembored  ;  and  what  a 
breakfasting  at  liabet's,  after  a  rather  cold  swim  in  the 
l*assy  school  of  natation,  and  a  walk  all  round  the  out- 
side of  the  school  that  was  once  ours! 

Barty  looked  very  well,  but  vc.-y  thin,  and  his  small 
sprouting  beard  and  mustache  had  (juite  altered  the 
character  of  his  face.  I  shall  distress  my  lady  readers  if 
I  tell  them  the  alteration  was  not  an  improvement ;  so  I 
won't. 

What  a  happy  week  that  was  to  me  I  leav^  to  the  read- 
er's inuigiiuition.  We  took  a  large  double-bedded  room 
at  the  Hotel  de  Lille  et  d'Albion  in  case  we  might  want 
to  smoke  and  talk  all  night ;  we  did,  I  think,  and  had 
our  colTee  brought  up  to  us  in  the  morning. 

I  will  not  attempt  to  describe  the  sensations  of  a  young 
man  going  back  to  his  beloved  Paris  **  after  five  years." 
Tout  9a,  c'esf  de  I'histoh'e  ancienne.  And  Barty  and 
Paris  together — that  is  not  for  such  a  pen  as  mine. 

I  showed  him  a  new  photograph  of  Leah  ({ibson — a 
very  largo  one  and  an  excellent,  lie  gazed  at  it  a  long 
time  with  his  magnifying-glass  and  without,  all  his  keen 
perceptions  on  the  alert ;  and  I  watched  his  face  nar- 
rowly. 

"  My  eyes  I  She  is  a  beautiful  young  woman,  and  no 
mistake  !"  ho  said,  Avith  a  sigh.  '*  You  mustn't  let  her 
slip  through  your  fingers,  liob  I" 

*'  How  about  that  toss  ?"  said  I,  and  laughed, 


183 


"Oh,  I  resi.LTii  ///// <'l;ii!!i  ;  siic'.s  not  f'ti  iliv  liki'S  o'  nio. 
Von'ro  ^'oiiii;  to  l>o  !i  Lni'til  capitiilisL — n  cilizcii  of  credit 
ami  iviiowii.  I'm  Mr.  XoUody.  of  howIktc.  i\o  in  ami 
will,  my  bf>y  ;  you  liavo  my  Ix'st  wislics.  If  I  can  scra[)e 
together  eiiou'di  moiiey  to  l)uy  myself  a  white  waistcoat 
and  a  decent  coat,  I'll  he  ycair  hest  man  ;  or  some  left-oil' 
things  of  yours  min'ht'do — wtj're  ahout  of  ;i  size,  aren't 
we  y  Vou'ye  hecome  tres  hel  iu)mme,  IJoh,  plutut  hel 
homme  (|ue  joli  _uart;on,  hein  ?  That's  what  women  are 
fond  of;  iMiujlish  women  especially.  I'm  nowhere  now, 
without  my  uniform  aiul  the  rest.  Is  it  still  Skinner 
who  hiiilds  for  you  ?  Good  old  Skinner  !  Mes  compli- 
ments I" 

This  simi)le  little  speech  to(»k  a  hidden  weight  o(T  iny 
mind  and  left  me  very  hap[>y.  I  conlided  frankly  to  the 
good  Barty  that  no  S;dly  in  any  alley  had  ever  been  more 
warmly  adored  l)y  any  industrious  young  London  appren- 
tice than  was  Leah  (iibson  by  me  ! 

"(/a  y  est,  alors !  Je  te  felicite  d'avance,  et  je  garde 
mes  larmes  pour  ((uand  tu  seras  parti.  Allons  diuoi'  chez 
Babet  :  j'ai  soif  d(!  boire  a  ton  bo.  heur  I" 

Bid'ore  I  left  we  met  an  English  artist  ho  had  known 
at  the  British  Museum — an  e.\cellc!it  fellow,  one  Wallers, 
who  took  him  under  his  wing,  ami  was  the  nu'ans  of  his 
entering  the  atelier  Troplong  in  the  \l\w  des  Bx'lges  as 
an  art  student.  And  thus  Barly  bi'gan  his  art  studies  in 
a  [)ro[)er  and  legitimate  way.  It  was  ('harat.'teristii!  of 
him  that  this  should  lu'ver  have  occurreil  to  him  before. 

So  when  1  parted  with  the  dear  fellow  things  were 
looking  a  little  brighti-r  for  him  too. 

All  through  the  wiiiter  he  worked  very  hard — the  first 
to  come,  the  hist  to  go  ;  and  enjoyed  his  studio  life 
thoroughly. 

Sucii  readers  as  I  am  likely  to  have  will  not  require  to 


T 


184 


be  told  what  the  interior  of  a  Frencli  atelier  of  the  kind 
is  like,  nor  its  domestic  economy  ;  nor  will  I  attempt  to 
describe  all  the  fnn  and  the  frolic,  although  I  lieard  it 
all  from  ]?arty  in  after-years,  and  very  good  it  was.  I 
almost  felt  I'd  studied  there  myself  !  lie  was  a  prime 
favorite — ''  le  Beau  Josselin,"  as  he  was  called. 

lie  made  very  rapid  progress,  and  iiad  already  begun 
to  work  in  colors  l)y  the  spring.  He  made  many  friends, 
but  led  a  quiet,  industrious  lil'e^  unrelieved  (as  far  as  1 
know)  by  any  of  those  light  episodes  one  associates  with 
student  life  in  Paris.  His  principal  amusements  through 
the  long  winter  evenings  were  the  cafe  and  the  brasserie, 
mild  ecarte,  a  game  at  billiards  or  dominoes,  and  long 
talks  about  art  and  literature  with  the  usual  unkempt 
young  geniuses  of  the  place  and  time — French,  English, 
American. 

Theu  he  suddenly  took  it  into  his  head  to  go  to  Ant- 
werp;  I  don't  know  Avho  iniluencedbim  in  this  direction, 
but  1  arranged  to  nu'et  him  there  at  the  end  of  April — 
and  we  spent  a  delightful  week  together,  staying  at  the 
"  (rraiul  Laboureur"  in  the  Place  de  Meer.  The  town 
was  still  surroumled  by  the  old  walls  and  the  moat,  and 
of  a  picturesqueness  that  seemed  as  if  it  would  never 
pall. 

Twice  or  three  times  that  week  British  tourists  and 
travellers  landed  at  the  (juai  by  the  Phu^e  Verte  from 
The  Barod  (hy — and  this  laiulii'g  was  Party's  delight. 

The  sight  of  fair,  fresh  English  girls,  with  huge  crino- 
lines, and  their  hair  done  up  in  (dienille  nets,  made  him 
long  for  England  again,  and  the  sound  of  their  voices 
went  nigh  to  weakening  his  resolve.  But  ho  stood  firm 
to  the  last,  and  saw  me  off  by  The  Baron.  I  /elt  a 
strange  "sorrement  do  canir"  as  1  left  him  standing 
there,  80  firm,  as  if  ho  had  been  put  "an  piquet"  by 


185 


I 


M.  Dumollard  !  and  so  tbin  and  tall  and  slender — and 
his  boyish  face  so  grave.  Good  heavens  !  bow  much 
alone  he  seemed,  who  was  so  little  built  to  live  alone  ! 

It  is  really  not  too  much  to  say  that  I  would  have 
given  up  to  him  everything  I  possessed  in  the  ^vorld — 
every  blessed  thing !  except  Leah — and  Leah  was  not 
mine  to  give  I 

Now  and  again  Barty's  face  would  take  on  a  look  so 
iiHiffabiy,  pathetically,  angelically  simple  and  childlike 
that  it  moved  one  to  the  very  depths,  and  made  one  feel 
lik(!  father  and  mother  to  him  in  one  !  It  was  the  true 
revelation  of  his  innermost  soul,  which  in  many  ways 
remained  that  of  a  child  even  in  his  middle  age  and  till 
he  died.  All  his  life  he  never  quite  put  away  childish 
things  ! 

I  really  believe  that  in  bygone  ages  he  would  have 
moved  the  world  with  that  look,  and  been  another  Peter 
the  Hermit ! 

He  became  a  pupil  at  the  academy  under  De  Keyser 
and  Van  Lerius,  and  worked  harder  than  ever. 

He  took  a  room  nearly  all  window  on  a  second  door  in 
the  Marche  aux  GCufs,  just  under  the  shadow  of  the 
gigantic  spire  which  rings  a  fragment  of  melody  every 
seven  minutes  and  a  halt' — and  the  whole  tune  at  mid- 
night, fortissimo. 

lie  laid  in  a  stock  of  cigars  at  less  than  a  centime 
ai)iece,and  dried  them  in  the  sun;  they  left  as  he  smoked 
them  a  firm  white  ash  two  inches  long;  and  he  grew  so 
fond  of  them  that  ht  cared  to  smoke  nothing  else. 

He  rose  before  the  dawn,  and  went  for  a  swim  more 
than  a  mile  away — got  to  the  academy  at  8ix — worked  till 
eight — breakfasted  on  a  little  roll  called  a  pistolet,  and  a 
cup  of  colTee  ;  then  the  academy  again  from  nine  till 
twelve — when  dinner,  the  cheapest  he  had  ever  known, 


186 


but  not  the  worst.  Then  work  a^ain  ull  the  afternoon, 
copying  old  masters  at  the  Gallery.  Then  ti  cheap  sup- 
per, a  long  walk  along  the  quais  or  ramparts  or  outside 
— a  game  of  dominoes,  and  a  glass  or  two  of  *'  ^lalines'' 
or  "  Louvain" — then  bed,  without  ijivading  hordes  ;  the 
Flemish  are  as  clean  as  the  Dutch  ;  and  there  he  wcuild 
soon  smoke  and  read  himself  to  sleep  in  spite  of  chimes 
— wiiich  lull  you,  when  once  you  get  "  achimatized,"  as 
he  called  it,  meaning  of  course  to  be  funny  :  a  vilhinous 
kind  of  fun — caught,  I  fear,  in  Barge  Yard,  Bucklers- 
bury.  It  used  to  rain  puns  in  the  City — especially  in  the 
Stock  Exchange,  which  is  close  to  Barge  Yard. 

It  was  a  happy  life,  and  he  grew  to  like  it  better  than 
any  life  he  had  led  yet;  besides,  he  improved  rapidly,  as 
his  facility  was  great — for  painting  as  for  everything  he 
tried  his  hand  at. 

He  also  had  a  very  agreeable  social  existence. 

One  morning  at  the  academy,  two  or  three  days  after 
his  arrival,  he  was  accosted  by  a  fellow-student — one 
Tescheles — who  introduced  himself  as  an  old  pupil  of 
Troplong's  in  the  Uue  des  Beiges.  They  had  a  long  chat 
in  French  about  the  old  Paris  studio.  Among  other 
things,  Tescheles  asked  -if  there  were  still  any  English 
there. 

**Oui" — says  Barty — "  un  nomme  Valteres"  .  .  . 

Barty  pronounced  this  name  as  if  it  were  French  ;  and 
noticed  tiiat  Tescheles  smiled,  exclaiming  : 


**  Parbleu,  ce  bon  Valteres — je  Tconnais  bien  !" 
Next  day  Tescheles   came  up  to  an  English  student 
called  Fox  and  said  : 

**Well,   old   stick-in-the-mud,   how   are   t/on   getting 


ou 


V" 


<< 


Why,  you  don't  mean  to  say  (jou're  an  Englishman  ?'* 


says  Barty  to  Tescheles. 


PETEK  THE   HERMIT  AU  PIQUET 


188 


"Good  heavens!  you  don't  meiin  to  say  you  are! 
fancy  your  calling  poor  old  Walters  VdUen's  /" 

And  after  that  tiiey  hecanie  very  intimate,  and  that 
was  a  good  thing  for  liarty. 

Tiie  })()lygl()t  Teschcdes  was  of  a  famous  musical  fami- 
ly, of  mixed  (Jernian  aiul  Russian  origin,  natural ixcd  in 
England  and  domiciled  in  France — a  true  cosjnopolite 
and  a  wonderful  linguist,  besides  being  also  a  cultivated 
musician  and  excellent  painter  ;  and  all  the  musicians, 
famous  or  otherwise,  that  passed  through  Antwerj)  luade 
his  rooms  a  favorite  resort  and  house  of  call.  And 
Harty  was  introduced  into  a  world  as  delightful  to  h.iin 
as  it  was  new — and  to  music  that  ravished  his  soul  with 
a  novel  enchantment  :  Chopin,  Liszt,  Wagner,  Schu- 
nuinn — and  he  fouml  that  Schubert  had  written  a  few 
other  songs  besides  the  famous  ''Serenade"! 

One  evening  he  was  even  asked  if  he  could  make 
music  himsell',  and  actually  volunteered  to  sing — and 
sang  that  famous  ballad  of  Balfe's  which  seems  destined 
to  become  immortal  in  this  country — *' When  other  lips" 
.  .  .  ali(tf<,  '"  Then  you'll  remember  mo  !" 

Strange  to  say,  it  was  absolutely  new  to  this  high 
musical  circle,  but  they  went  quite  mad  over  it ;  and 
the  beautiful  melody  got  naturalized  from  tl  at  moment 
in  Belgium  and  beyond,  and  liarty  was  i)roclaimed  the 
primo  tenore  of  Antwerp — although  he  was  only  a  bary- 
tone ! 

A  fortnight  al'ter  this  Barty  heard  ''  When  other  lips" 
played  by  the  "Guides"  band  in  the  park  at  Brussels. 
Its  first  appearance  out  of  England — and  all  through 
him. 

Then  he  belonged  to  the  Antwerp  "Cercle  Artisti(pie," 
where  he  made  many  friends  and  was  very  popular,  as  I 
can  well  imagine. 


189 


» 


)} 


Thus  he  wus  luippier  than  lie  had  ever  been  in  his  life  ; 
but  for  one  thing  that  phiuued  him  now  and  again  :  ids 
oft-recurring  desire  to  l)e  conscious  once  more  of  tlie 
nortii,  wiucli  lie  iiad  not  felt  for  four  or  live  y«'ars. 

Tile  want  of  tins  sensation  at  cerlain  jti-riods — es- 
pecially at  night — would  send  a  chill  thrill  of  desolation 
through  him  like  a  wave  ;  a  wild  {)anic,  a  (juick  agony, 
us  though  the  true  meaning  of  absolute  loneliness  were 
suddeidy  realized  by  a  lightning  Hash  of  insight,  and  it 
were  to  last  for  ever  ami  ever. 

This  would  [)ass  away  in  a  second  or  two,  but  left  a 
haunting  recollection  behind  for  many  hours.  And  then 
all  was  again  sunshine,  and  the  woiid  w:is  made  of  many 
friends — and  solitude  was  impossible  evermore. 

One  memorable  morning  this  hai)j)iness  received  a 
check  and  a  great  horror  befell  him.  It  was  towards 
the  end  of  sumnu^r — just  before  the  vaeation. 

With  a  dozen  others,  he  was  }»ainting  the  head  of  an 
old  man  from  the  life,  when  he  became  (piite  suddeidy 
conscious  of  something  strange  in  his  sight.  First  he 
shut  his  left  eye  and  saw  with  hi«  right  (piite  i)erfectly; 
then  he  shut  the  right,  ami  lo  !  whatever  lie  looked  at 
with  the  left  dwindled  to  a  vanishing  point  and  bet^ame 
invisible.  No  rubbing  or  bathing  of  his  eye  would  alter 
the  terrible  fact,  and  he  knew  what  great  fear  really 
means,  for  the  first  time. 

Much  kind  concern  was  expressed,  and  Van  Lerius 
told  him  to  go  at  once  to  a  Monsieur  Xoiret,  ji  pnd'essor 
at  the  Catholic  University  of  Louvain,  who  had  attcnidtsd 
hint  for  the  eyes,  and  had  the  re})utation  of  being  the 
first  oculist  in  Belgium. 

Barty  wrote  inunediately  and  an  appointment  was 
made,  and  in  three  days  he  saw  the  great  man,  half 
professor,  half  priest,  who  took  him  into  a  dark  chamber 


I 


190 


lighted  by  a  lamp,  and  dilated  his  pupil  with  atropine, 
and  looked  into  his  eye  with  the  newly  discovered  "oph- 
thalmoscope." 

Professor  Noiret  told  him  it  was  merely  a  congestion 
of  the  retina — for  which  no  cause  could  be  assigned; 
find  that  he  would  be  cured  in  less  than  a  month.  That 
he  was  to  have  a  seton  let  into  the  back  of  his  neck, 
dry-cup  himself  on  the  chest  and  thighs  night  and  morn- 
ing, and  take  a  i)reparation  of  mercury  three  times  a  day. 
Also  that  ho  must  go  to  the  seaside  immediately — and 
he  recommenced  Ostend. 

Barty  told  him  that  he  was  an  impecunious  art  student, 
and  that  Ostend  was  a  very  expensive  place. 

Noiret  considerately  recommended  Blankenberghe, 
which  was  cheap  ;  asked  for  and  took  his  full  fee,  and 
said,  with  a  courtly  priestly  bow  : 

''  If  you  are  not  cured,  come  back  in  a  month.  An 
revoir !" 

So  poor  Barty  had  the  seton  put  in  by  a  kind  of  barber- 
surgeon,  and  was  told  how  to  dress  it  night  and  morn- 
ing ;  got  his  medicines  and  his  dry-cuj^ping  apparatus, 
and  went  otf  to  Blankenberghe  quite  hopeful. 

And  there  things  happened  to  him  which  I  really 
think  are  worth  telling  ;  in  the  first  place,  because,  even 
if  they  did  not  concern  Barty  Jossclin,  they  should  be 
amusing  for  their  own  sake — that  is,  if  I  could  only  tell 
them  as  he  told  me  afterwards  ;  and  I  will  do  my  best ! 

And  then  he  Avas  nearing  the  end  of  the  time  when  he 
was  to  remain  as  other  mortals  are.  His  new  life  was 
soon  to  open,  the  great  change  to  which  we  owe  the 
Barty  Josselin  who  had  changed  the  world  for  tis!" 

Besides,  this  is  a  biography — not  a  novel — not  litera- 
ture !  So  what  does  it  nuitter  how  it's  written,  so  long 
as  it's  all  true  I 


part  jfiftb 

"  ()  oclostc  hainc, 

Coimiu'Ht  t'assouvir  ? 
O  KoulTranoe  himiaiiu', 

Qui  k'  pent  guerir  V 
Si  lourdc  est  ma  pciue 

J'cn  voudrais  tnoiirr- 

Tel  est   inoti  tU'sir  ! 


"Navro  ilc  coniprcndre, 

Las  (Ic  compatir, 
Pour  no  plus  (111(11(110, 

Ni  vtiir,  ni  s.ntir, 
J(;  suis  piOi  a,  ii'udre 

iMoii  (Icriiicr  soupir — 

Et  cV'sl  moil  (lesir  ! 

"Nc  plus  lion  eoiinaitre, 

Ni  me  souvenir — 
Nc  jamais  lonaifre, 

Ni  me  iciKJorniir — 
N(i  plus  jamais  vtvv, 

Mais  ell  hicn  tiiiir — 

Vt»ila  mou  dcjsir !" — Anon, 


Bauty  went  third  class  to  Bruges,  uml  saw  Jill  over  it, 
and  sk'pt  at  the  "  Flour  de  lilt?."  and  heard  new  chimes, 
and  renieni!)ered  his  Longfellow. 

Next  morning,  a  very  fine  one,  as  he  was  hopefully 
smoking  his  centime  cigar  v  ith  immense  relish  near  the 
little  three-horsed  wagonette  that  was  to  bear  him  to 


193 


Bliiiikenberglie,  bo  saw  tluit  he  was  to  have  three  fellow- 
passengers,  witli  a  considerable  amount  of  very  interest- 
ing luggage,  and  rejoiced. 

First,  a  tall  man  about  thirty,  in  a  very  smart  white 
sunirner  suit,  surmounted  by  a  jaunty  little  straw  hat 
witii  a  yellow  ribbon,  lie  was  strikingly  handsome,  and 
wore  immense  black  whiskers  but  no  mustache,  and  had  a 
most  magnificent  double  row  of  white,  pearly  teeth,  which 
he  showed  very  much  when  he  smiled,  and  he  smiled  very 
often,  lie  was  evidently  a  personage  of  importance  and 
very  well  off,  for  he  gave  hiuiself  great  airs  and  ordered 
people  about  and  chaffed  them,  and  it  made  them  laugh 
instead  of  making  tbem  angry  ;  and  he  was  obeyed  with 
wonderful  alacrity.  IFc  spoke  Freiuih  fluently,  but  with 
.1  marked  Italian  acceut. 

Next,  a  very  bhnid  lady  of  about  the  same  age,  not 
beautiful,  but  rather  overdressed,  and  whose  accent,  when 
she  spoke  French,  was  very  Oerman,  and  who  looked  as 
if  she  might  be  easily  moved  to  wrath.  Now  and  then 
she  spoke  to  the  gentleman  in  a  very  audible  Italian 
aside,  ami  liarty  was  able  to  gather  that  her  Italian  was 
about  as  rudimentary  as  his  own. 

Last  and  least,  a  pale,  plain,  pathetic  little  girl  of  six 
or  eigbt,  with  a  nose  rather  swollen,  and  a  black  plait 
down  her  back,  and  largo  black  eyes,  something  like 
Leah  (Jiljson's;  and  sbe  never  took  tliese  eyes  otf  Barty's 
face. 

Their  luggage  consisted  of  two  big  trunks,  a  guitar 
and  violin  (in  their  cases),  and  music-books  bound  to- 
gether by  a  rope. 

hsalleza  Blankenbers:lie,mossie?"8aid  the  Italian, 


(( 


with  a  winning  smile. 


Barty 


answer 
smiled  ecstatic  delight 


ed   in   the  aflirmative,  and   the    "^talian 


m 


"J6  soiiis  bienn  content — nous  ferons  route  ensiem- 
blo.  ..."  I  will  translate  :  *'  I  call  myself  Carlo  Vero- 
nese— first  barytone  of  the  theatre  of  La  Scala,  Lilian. 
The  signora  is  my  second  wife ;  she  is  prima  donna  as- 
soliita  of  the  grand  opera,  Naples.  The  little  ragazzii  is 
my  daughter  by  my  first  wife.  She  is  the  greatest  vio- 
linist of  her  age  now  living — un*  prodige,  mossie — un' 
fenomeno  !" 

Barty,  charmed  w'th  his  new  acquaintance,  gave  the 
signorc  his  card,  and  Carlo  Veronese  invited  him  gra- 
ciously to  take  a  seat  in  the  wagonette,  as  if  it  wore  his 
own  private  carriage.  ]3arty,  wiio  was  the  most  easily 
impressed  person  that  ever  lived,  a^'cepted  with  as  much 
sincere  gratitude  as  if  he  hadn't  already  paid  for  his 
place,  and  they  started  on  their  sunny  drive  of  eigiit 
miles  along  the  dusty  straight  Belgian  chaussoe,  bordered 
with  poplars  on  either  aklo,  and  paved  with  fiagstones  all 
the  way  to  Blankenberglie. 

8ignor  Veronese  informed  Barty  that  on  their  holiday 
travels  tliey  always  managed  to  combine  profit  with  plea^s- 
ure,  and  that  he  proposed  giving  a  grand  concert  at  the 
Cafe  on  the  Plage,  or  the  Kursaal,  next  (l;iy  ;  that  he 
was  going  to  sing  Figaro's  great  yong  in  the  liat'hiere, 
and  the  signora  would  give  '"  Ihtborto,  toua  que  z^iinie" 
in  French  (or,  rather,  *'  Itopcii,  dol  que  cluiime,"  as  she 
called  it,  correcting  his  t;ji!ent),  and  the  fenomeno,  whose 
name  was  Marianina,  would  play  an  iirrangcment  of  the 
'^Carnival  of  Venice"  by  Paganini. 

"Ma  vous  aussi,  vous  etes  mousicien — j6  vols  9a  \)\iv  la 
votre  figoure  !" 

liarty  modestly  disclaimed  all  pretensions^  and  said  he 
was  only  an  art  student — a  painter. 

"All  the  arts  are  brothers,"  sjiid  the  signore,  and  the 
little  signorina  stole  her  hand  into  Barty's  and  left  it  thero. 

13 


194 


'*  Listen,"  said  the  signore  ;  **  wliy  not  arrange  to  live 
togetlier,  you  and  we  ?  I  hate  throwing  away  money  on 
mere  pomposity  and  grandiosity  and  show.  AVe  always 
take  a  little  furnished  apartment,  elle  et  moi.  Then  I 
go  and  buy  provisions,  bon  marclie — and  she  cooks  them 
— and  we  have  our  meals  better  than  at  tlie  hotel  and  at 
half  tlie  price  !  Join  us,  unless  you  like  to  throw  your 
money  by  the  window  !" 

The  Siguorina  Marianina's  little  brown  hand  gave 
Barty^s  a  little  warm  squeeze,  and  Bai'ty  was  only  too 
delighted  to  accept  an  arrangement  that  promised  to  be 
so  agreeable  and  so  practically  wise. 

They  arrived  at  lihinkenbergho,  aiul,  leaving  their  lug- 
ga.^e  at  the  wagonette  station,  went  in  '•earch  of  lodgings. 
Th.^e  were  soon  found  in  a  large  attic  at  the  top  of  a 
house,  over  a  ))akery.  One  little  mansarde,  witli  a  truckle- 
bed  and  wash-hand  stand,  did  for  the  family  of  Vero- 
nese ;  another,  smaller  still,  for  Barty. 

Other  mansardes  also  opened  on  to  the  large  attic,  or 
grenier,  where  there  were  sacks  of  grain  and  of  Hour,  and 
a  sweet  smell  of  cleanliness.  Barty  wondered  that  such 
economical  arrangements  could  suit  his  new  friends,  but 
was  well  pleased  ;  a  weight  was  taken  off  his  mind.  He 
feared  a  stylo  of  living  he  could  not  have  afforded  to 
share,  and  here  were  all  diliiculties  smoothed  away  with- 
out any  trouble  whatever. 

They  got  in  their  luggage,  and  Barty  went  Avith  the 
signore  in  searcii  of  bread  and  meat  and  wine  and  ground 
cott'ee.  When  they  got  back,  a  little  stove  was  ready 
lighted  in  the  Veronese  garret ;  they  cooked  the  food  in 
a  frying-pan,  opening  the  wiiulow  wide  and  closing  the 
door,  as  the  signore  thought  it  useless  to  inform  the 
world  by  the  sense  of  smell  that  they  did  their  cooking 
en  familk ;   and  Barty   enjoyed   the   meal   immensely, 


195 


and  almost  forgot  his  trouble,  but  for  the  pjiin  of  his 
seton. 

After  lunch  the  signore  produced  his  placards,  already 
printed  by  hand,  and  made  some  paste  in  an  iron  pot, 
and  the  signora  made  coffee.  And  Veronese  tuned  liis 
guitar  and  said  : 

^' Je  vais  vous  canter  couelquecose — una  piccola  cosa 
da  niente  I — vous  compronoz  ritaiion  ?'^ 

"  Oh  yes,"  said  Barty  :  he  had  picked  up  a  deal  of  Ital- 
ian and  many  pretty  Italian  canzonets  from  his  friend 
old  Pergolese,  who  kept  the  Italian  eating-house  in  Rupert 
Street.     ''Sing  me  a  stornella — je  les  adore." 

And  he  set  himself  to  listen,  with  his  heart  in  his 
mouth  from  sheer  pleasurable  anticipation. 

The  signore  sang  a  pretty  little  song,  by  (lordigiani, 
called  "11  vero  aniore."     Barty  knew  it  well. 

"E  lo  mlo  amor  t-  undiito  u  soggiorntire 
A  Lucca  bclla — c  diventar  signore.  .  .  ." 

Alas  for  lost  illusions  !  The  signore's  voice  was  a 
coarse,  unsympathetic,  strident  buffo  bass,  not  always 
quite  in  the  middle  of  the  note  ;  nor,  in  spite  of  his  na- 
tive liveliness  of  accent  and  expression,  did  he  make  the 
song  interesting  or  pretty  in  the  least. 

Poor  Barty  had  fallen  from  the  skies  ;  but  he  did  his 
best  not  to  show  his  disenchantnu^nt,  ami  this,  from  a 
kind  and  amiable  way  he  always  had  and  a  coi^stant 
wish  to  please,  was  not  dlHicuU. 

Then  t  he  signora  sang  '*  O  mon  Fcrnand !"  from  the  Fa- 
rurild.VA  Frciudhbut  with  a  hideous  (jerman  accent  and 
a  screech  as  of  sonuj  Teutonic  peacock,  and  without  a 
single  sympathetic  ivote  ;  though  otherwise  wi  II  in  tune, 
and  with  a  certain  professional  knowledge  of  what  she 
was  about. 


196 


And  then  poor  Marianina  was  made  to  stand  np  on  six 
music-books,  oi)posite  a  small  music-easel,  a:Hl  play  her 
''Carnival  of  Venice"  on  the  violin.  Every  time  she 
made  a  false  note  in  the  difficult  variations,  her  father, 
with  his  long,  thick,  hairy  middle  finger,  gave  her  a 
fierce  fillip  on  the  nose,  and  she  had  to  swallow  her  tears 
and  i)lay  on  Barty  was  almost  wild  with  angry  pity,  hut 
disseml)led,  for  fear  of  making  her  worse  enemies  in  her 
father  and  stepmother. 

Not  that  the  poor  little  thing  played  badly  ;  indeed, 
she  played  surprisiiigly  well  for  her  age,  and  Barty  was 
sincere  in  his  warm  commendation  of  her  talent. 

*'  Et  vous  no  cantez  pas  du  tout  — du  tout  ?"  said  Ver- 
onese. 

"  Oh,  si,  quelquefois  !" 

"  (-aiitez  couelquecoze — ze  vous  accompagnerai  sous  la 
guitare! — n'ayez  pas  paoure — nous  sommes  indoulgents, 
elle  et  moi — " 

''Oh — je  m'accompagnerai  bien  moi-meme  comme  Je 
pourrai — "  said  Barty,  and  took  the  guitar,  and  sang  a 
little  French  'ryrolienne  called  "  Fleur  des  Alpes,"  which 
he  could  always  sing  quite  beautifully  ;  and  the  elfect 
was  droll  iiuleed. 

IMarianina  wept ;  the  signore  went  down  on  his  knees  in 
a  theatrical  manner  to  him.  and  called  him  "maestro" 
aiul  other  big  Italian  names  ;  the  Frau  signora,  with  tears 
in  her  eyes,  asked  permission  to  kiss  his  hand,  which  his 
modesty  refused — he  kissed  hers  instead. 

"He  was  a  great  genius,  a  bird  of  Ood,  who  had 
amused  himself  l)y  making  fools  of  poor,  innocent,  hum- 
ble, wandering  minstrels.  Oh,  would  he  not  be  generous 
(IS  he  was  great  and  be  one  of  them  for  a  few  days,  and 
take  half  the  profits — move — whatever  be  liked?"  etc. 

And  indeed  they  imuiet. lately  saw  the  business  side  of 


lid 


11(1 


of 


H 


> 

© 
< 

P3 

s 


198 


the  question,  and  were,  to  do  them  justice,  immensely 
liberal  in  their  conditions  of  partnership — and  also  most 
distressingly  persistent,  with  adulations  that  got  more 
and  more  fulsome  the  more  he  held  back. 

Tiiere  was  a  long  discussion.  Barty  had  to  be  quite 
brutal  at  the  end — told  them  he  was  not  a  musician,  but 
a  painter,  and  that  nothing  on  earth  should  induce  him 
to  join  them  in  their  concert. 

And  finally,  much  crestfallen  and  somewhat  huffed,  the 
pair  went  out  to  post  their  j)lacards  all  over  the  town,  aiul 
Barty  went  for  a  bath  and  a  long  walk — suddenly  feeling 
sad  again  and  horribly  one-eyed  and  maimed,  and  more 
wofully  northless  and  homeless  and  friendless  than  ever. 

Blankenberghe  was  already  very  full,  and  when  he  got 
back  he  saw  the  famous  placards  everywhere.  And  found 
his  friends  cooking  their  dinner,  and  was  pressed  to  join 
them ;  and  did  so — producing  a  magnificent  pasty  and 
some  hot-house  grapes  and  two  bottles  of  wine  as  a  peace- 
offering — and  was  forgiven. 

And  after  dinner  they  all  sat  on  grain-sacks  together 
in  the  large  granary,  and  made  music — with  lady's-maids 
and  valets  and  servants  of  the  house  for  a  most  genial 
and  appreciative  audience  —  and  had  a  very  pleasant 
evening ;  and  Barty  came  to  the  conclusion  that  he  had 
mistaken  his  trade — that  he  sang  devilish  well,  in  fact ; 
and  so  he  did. 

Whatever  his  technical  shortcomings  might  be,  he 
could  make  any  tune  souiul  pretty  when  he  sang  it.  He 
had  the  native  gift  of  ease,  pathos,  rhythm,  humor,  and 
charm  —  and  a  delightful  sympathetic  twang  in  his 
voice.  His  mother  must  have  sung  sometiiing  like  that; 
and  all  Paris  went  nuid  about  her.  No  technical  teach- 
ing in  the  world  can  ever  match  a  genuine  inheritance  j 
and  that's  a  fact. 


199 


Next  morning  they  all  bathed  together,  and  Barty  un- 
heroically  and  quite  obscurely  saved  a  life. 

The  signore  and  his  fat  white  signora  went  dancing 
out  into  the  sunny  waves  and  right  av;ay  seawards. 

Then  came  Barty  with  an  all-round  shirt-collar  round 
his  neck  and  a  white  tie  on,  to  conceal  his  seton,  and  a 
pair  of  blue  spectacles  for  the  glare.  And  behind  him 
Marianina,  hopping  on  aiul  follo\\ing  as  best  she  might. 
He  turned  round  to  encourage  her,  and  she  had  sudden- 
ly disappeared  ;  half  uneasy,  he  went  back  a  step  or  two, 
and  saw  her  little  pale-brown  face  gasping  just  beneath 
the  surface — she  had  just  got  out  of  her  depth. 

He  snatched  her  out,  and  she  clung  to  him  like  a  small 
monkey  and  cried  dreadfully,  and  was  sick  all  over  him 
and  herself.  He  managed  to  get  iier  back  on  shore  and 
washed  and  dried  and  consoled  her  before  her  people 
came  back — and  had  the  tact  not  to  mention  this  ad- 
venture, guessing  what  fillips  she  wouhl  catch  on  her 
poor  little  pink  nose  for  her  stupidity.  She  looked  her 
gratitude  for  this  reticence  of  his  in  the  most  touching 
way,  with  her  big  black  eyes — and  had  a  cunning  smile 
of  delisht  at  their  common  tacit  uiulerstanding.  Iier 
rescuer  from  a  watery  grave  did  not  apply  for  the  '*  me- 
daille  de  sauvetage"! 

Barty  took  an  immense  walk  that  day  to  avoid  the 
common  repast ;  lie  was  getting  very  tired  of  the  two 
senior  V'eroneses. 

The  concert  in  the  evening  was  a  tremendous  su(!- 
cess.  The  blatant  signore  sang  his  Figaro  song  very  well 
indeed — it  suited  him  better  than  little  feminine  love- 
ditties.  The  signora  was  loud  and  })assionate  and  dra- 
matic in  **Koberto";  and  Belgians  make  more  allowance 
for  a  German  accent  in  French  than  Pjirisijuis  ;  besides, 
it  was  not  quite  their  own  language  that  was  being  mur- 


m 


200 


dered  before  them.  It  ma?/  be,  some  clay  !  I  sincerely 
hope  so.     Je  leur  veux  du  bieii. 

Poor  little  Marianina  stood  on  her  six  music -books 
and  played  with  immense  care  and  earnestness,  just  like 
a  frightened  but  well-trained  poodle  walking  on  its  hind- 
legs — one  eye  on  her  music  and  the  tail  of  the  other  on 
her  father,  who  accompanied  her  with  his  guitar.  She 
got  an  encore,  to  Barty's  great  relief ;  and  to  hers  too, 
no  doubt — if  she  hadn't,  fdli{)S  on  the  nose  for  supper 
that  niglit !  Then  there  were  more  solos  and  duets, 
with  obbligatos  for  the  violin. 

Next  day  Veronese  and  his  wife  were  in  high  feather 
at  the  Kursaal,  where  they  had  sung  the  night  before. 

A  very  distinguished  military  foreigner,  in  attendance 
on  so»ne  august  personage  from  Spain  or  Portugal  (and 
later  from  Ostend),  warmly  and  publicly  complimented 
the  signore  on  "  his  admirable  rendering  of  '  Largo  al 
factotum' — which,  as  his  dear  old  friend  Kossini  had 
once  told  him  (the  General),  he  (Rossini)  had  always 
modestly  looked  upon  as  the  one  thing  he  had  ever  writ- 
ten with  which  he  was  almost  pleased  !" 

Marianina  also  received  warm  commendation  from 
this  agreeable  old  soldier,  while  quite  a  fashionable 
crowd  was  listening  ;  and  Veronese  arranged  for  anoth- 
er concert  that  evening,  and  placarded  the  town  accord- 
ingly. 

Barty  managed  to  escape  any  more  meals  in  the  Casa 
Wu'onese.  but  took  Marianina  for  one  or  two  pleasant 
walks,  and  told  her  stories  and  sang  to  her  in  the  grenier, 
while  she  improvised  for  him  clever  little  obbligatos  on 
her  fiddle. 

He  found  a  cheap  eating-house  and  picked  up  a  com- 
panion or  two  to  chat  with,  lie  also  killed  time  with 
bis  seton  -  dressing  and  self  dry -cupping  —  and  hired 


201 


French  novels  iuul  read  tliein  as  nuieli  as  lie  dared  \vith 
his  remaining  eye,  about  which  he  was  morl)idly  ner- 
vous ;  he  always  fancied  it  would  got  its  retina  con- 
gested lilve  the  other,  in  wiiich  no  improvement  mani- 
fested itself  whatever  —  and  this  deprerised  him  very 
much,     lie  was  a  'uost  isupatient  patient. 

To  return.  The  second  concert  was  as  conspicuous  a 
failure  as  the  lirst  had  been  a  success  :  the  attendance 
was  small  and  less  distinguished,  and  there  was  no  en- 
thusiasm. The  Frau  signora  slipped  a  note  and  lost  her 
temper  in  the  middle  of  "  Uoberto,"  and  sang  out  of  tune 
and  with  careless,  open  contempt  of  her  audience,  and 
this  the  audience  seemed  to  understand  and  openly  re- 
sent. Poor  Marianina  was  frightened,  and  played  very 
wrong  notes  under  the  furious  gjize  of  her  ])apa,  and 
finally  broke  down  and  cried,  and  there  were  some  hisses 
for  him,  as  well  as  kind  and  encouraging  applause  for 
the  child.  Then  up  jumps  liarty  and  gets  on  the  phit- 
form  and  takes  the  signore's  guitar  and  twangs  it,  and 
smiles  all  round  be]iignly — immense  applause  ! 

Then  he  pats  Marianina's  thin  pale  cheek  and  wipes 
her  eyes  and  gives  her  a  kiss.  Frantic  applause  !  Then 
'•Flour  ties  Alpes!" 

Ovation  !  encore  !  bis  !  ter  ! 

And  for  a  third  encore  he  sings  a  very  pretty  little 
Flemish  ballad  about  the  rose  witiiout  a  thorn — "  lid, 
Koosjc  uit  de  Dome."  It  is  the  only  I'Memisli  song  he 
knows,  and  1  hope  I  have  spelt  it  right !  And  the  audi- 
ence goes  fpiite  crazy  with  enthusiasm,  and  everybody 
goes  home  happy,  even  the  Veroneses — and  Marianina 
does  not  get  lilliped  that  night. 

After  this  the  Veroneses  tried  humbler  spheres  for 
the  display  of  their  talents,  and  in  less  than  a  week  ex- 
hausted every  pothouse  and  beer-tavern  and  low  drink- 


202 


ing-shop  ill  Bhuikenberglie  !  mid  at  hist  they  took  to 
performing  for  easuiil  coppers  in  the  open  street,  and 
went  very  rapidly  down  hill.  The  signore  lost  his  jaunti- 
ness  and  grew  sordid  and  soiled  and  shabby  and  humble ; 
the  signora  looked  like  a  sulky,  dirty,  dnigglo-tailed  fury, 
ready  to  break  out  into  violeneeon  the  slightest  provoca- 
tion ;  poor  Marianina  got  paler  and  thiimor,  and  Barty 
was  very  uniiappy  about  her.  The  only  things  left  rosy 
about  her  were  her  bruised  nose,  and  her  lingers,  that 
always  seemed  stiff  with  cold ;  indeed,  they  were  blue 
rather  than  rosy — and  anything  but  clean. 

One  evjning  he  bought  her  a  little  warm  gray  cloak 
that  took  his  fancy  ;  when  he  went  home  after  dinner  to 
give  it  her  he  found  the  three  birds  of  song  had  taken 
flight — sans  tambour  ni  trompette,  and  leaving  no  mes- 
sage for  him.  The  baker  -  landlord  had  turned  them 
adrift — sent  them  about  their  business,  sacrificing  some 
of  liis  rent  to  get  rid  of  them  ;  not  a  heavy  loss,  I  fancy. 

Barty  went  after  them  all  over  the  little  town,  but  did 
not  find  them  ;  he  heard  they  were  last  seen  marching 
off  with  guitar  and  fiddle  in  a  southerly  direction  along 
the  coast,  and  found  that  their  luggage  was  to  be  sent  to 
Osteiid. 

lie  felt  very  sorry  for  ]\Iariaiiina  and  missed  her — and 
gave  the  cloak  to  some  poor  child  in  the  town,  and  was 
very  lonely. 

One  morning  as  he  loafed  about  dejectedly  with  his 
hands  in  his  pockets,  he  found  his  way  to  the  little 
Hotel  de  Ville,  whence  issued  sounds  of  music.  lie 
went  in.  It  was  like  a  kind  of  reading-room  and  con- 
cert -  room  combined  ;  there  was  a  piano  there,  and  a 
young  lady  practising,  with  her  mother  knitting  by  her 
side  ;  and  two  or  three  other  people,  friends  of  theirs, 
lounging  about  and  looking  at  the  papers. 


208 


The  mamma  was  a  very  handsome  person  of  aristo- 
cratic appearance.  The  pretty  daughter  was  practising 
the  soprano  part  in  a  duet  by  Campana,  wliich  Barty 
knew  well ;  it  was  "  Una  sera  d'  aniore."  The  tenor  liad 
apparently  not  kept  his  appointment,  and  madame  ex- 
pressed some  irritation  at  this;  lirst  to  a  friend,  in 
Frtnv'li,  hut  with  a  slight  English  accent — then  in  Eng- 
lish to  her  daughter;  and  Barty  grew  interested. 

After  a  little  while,  catching  the  mamma's  eye  (which 
was  not  dilticult,  as  she  very  frankly  and  persistently 
gazed  at  him,  and  with  a  singnlarly  tender  and  wistful 
expression  of  face),  he  got  up  and  asked  in  English  if  he 
eonld  be  of  any  use — seeing  that  he  knew  the  mnsic  well 
and  had  often  sung  it.  The  lady  was  delighted,  and 
Barty  and  mademoiselle  sang  the  duet  in  capital  style 
to  the  mamma's  accompaniment:  "guarda  die  bianca 
luna,"  etc. 

"  What  a  lovely  voice  you've  got !  May  I  ask  your 
name  ?"  says  the  mamma. 

'^Josselin.'' 

*'  English,  of  course  ?" 

"Upon  my  word  I  hardly  know  whether  I'm  English 
or  French !"  said  Barty,  and  he  and  xhe  lady  fell  into 
conversation. 

It  tnrned  out  that  she  was  Irish,  and  married  to  a 
Belgian  soldier,  le  General  Comte  de  Cleves  (who  was 
a  tremendons  swell,  it  seems — but  just  then  in  Brussels). 

Barty  told  Madame  de  Cleves  the  story  of  his  eye— he 
was  always  very  communicative  about  his  eye ;  and  she 
suddenly  buried  her  face  in  her  hands  and  wept ;  aiul 
mademoiselle  told  him  in  a  whisper  that  her  eldest 
brother  had  gone  blind  and  died  three  or  four  years  ago, 
and  that  he  was  extraordinarily  like  Barty  both  in  face 
and  figure. 


*** 


204 


Presently  jinotlier  son  of  Madame  do  Cli^ves  came  in — 
an  officer  of  dragoons  in  undress  uniform,  a  splendid 
youth.  He  was  the  missing  tenor,  and  made  his  excuses 
for  being  late,  and  sang  very  well  indeed. 

And  Jiarty  became  tlie  intimate  friend  of  these  good 
people,  who  made  Blankenberghe  a  dift'erent  place  to  him 
— and  conceived  for  him  a  violent  liking,  and  introduced 
him  to  all  their  smart  Belgian  friends;  they  were  quite 
a  set — bathing  together,  making  music  and  dancing,  tak- 
ing excursions,  and  so  forth.  And  before  a  fortnight  was 
over  Barty  had  become  the  most  i)opular  young  man  in 
the  town,  the  gayest  of  the  gay,  the  young  guardsman 
once  more,  throwing  dull  care  to  the  winds;  and  in  spite 
of  his  iinpecuniosity  (of  which  he  made  no  secret  what- 
ever) the  lioutG-cn-trai)i  of  the  company.  And  this  led 
to  many  droll  adventures — of  which  I  will  tell  one  as  a 
sample. 

A  certain  Belgian  viscount,  who  had  a  very  pretty 
French  Avife,  took  a  dislike  to  Barty.  He  had  the  repu- 
tation of  being  a  tremendous  fire-eater.  Ilis  wife,  a  light- 
hearted  little  llirt  (but  with  not  much  harm  in  her),  took 
a  great  fancy  to  him,  on  the  contrary. 

One  day  she  asked  him  for  a  wax  impression  of  the 
seal-ring  he  wore  on  his  linger,  and  the  following  morn- 
ing he  sealed  an  empty  envelope  and  stamped  it  with  his 
ring,  and  handed  it  to  her  on  the  Plage.  She  snatched 
it  with  a  quick  gesture  and  slipped  it  into  her  pocket 
with  quite  a  guilty  little  coquettish  look  of  mutual  un- 
derstanding. 

Monsieur  Jean  (as  the  viscount  was  called)  noticed 
this,  and  jostled  rudely  against  Josselin,  who  jostled 
back  again  and  laughed. 

Then  the  whole  party  walked  off  to  the  "  tir,"  or  shoot- 
ing-gallery on  the  Plage ;  some  wager  was  on,  I  believe, 


205 


and  when  they  got  there  they  all  began  to  shoot — at  dif- 
ferent distances,  hidies  and  gentlemen ;  all  but  Barty  ;  it 
was  a  kind  of  handicap. 

Monsieur  Jean,  after  a  fierce  and  significant  look  at 
Barty,  slowly  raised  his  pistol,  took  a  deliberate  aim  at  the 
small  target,  and  fired — hitting  it  just  lialf  an  inch  over  the 
bull's-eye;  a  capital  shot.  Barty  couldn't  have  done  bet- 
ter himself.  Then  takiug  another  loaded  pistol, he  ])res('nt- 
ed  it  to  my  friend  by  the  butt  and  said, with  a  solemn  bow: 

"A  vous,  monsieur  de  la  garde." 

"Messieurs  de  la  garde  doivent  toujours  tirer  /es  pre- 
miers I"  said  Barty,  laughing;  and  carelessly  let  oil  his 
pistol  in  the  direction  of  the  target  without  even  taking 
aim.  A  little  bell  rang,  and  there  was  a  shout  of  ap- 
plause ;  and  Barty  was  (conscious  that  by  an  extraordi- 
nary fluke  he  had  hit  the  bull's-eye  in  tiie  middle,  and 
saw  the  situation  at  once. 

Suddenly  looking  very  grave  and  very  sad,  he  threw 
the  pistol  away,  and  said  : 

*' Je  ne  tire  plus — j'ai  trop  peur  d'avoir  la  main  mal- 
heureuse  un  jour  !"  and  smiled  benignly  at  ^F.  .lean. 

A  moment's  silence  fell  on  the  party  and  ]\[.  Jean 
turned  very  pale. 

Barty  went  up  to  Madame  Jean  : 

"Will  you  forgive  me  for  giving  you  with  my  seal  an 
empty  envelope  ?  I  couldn't  think  of  anything  pretty 
enough  to  write  you — so  I  gave  it  up.  Tear  it  and  for- 
give me,     I'll  do  better  next  tiuie  !" 

The  lady  blushed  and  pulled  the  letter  out  of  her 
pocket  and  held  it  up  to  the  light,  and  it  was,  as  Barty 
said,  merely  an  em[)ty  envelope  aud  a  rod  seal.  She 
then  held  it  out  to  her  husband  and  exclaimed  : 

"  Le  cachet  de  Monsieur  Josselin,  que  je  lui  avals 
demande  .  .  .  V 


5. 


206 


So  bloodshed  was  perhaps  avoided,  and  Monsieur  Jean 
took  care  not  to  jostle  Josselin  any  more.  Indeed,  they 
became  great  friends. 

For  next  day  Barty  strolled  into  the  Salle  d'Armes, 
Rue  des  Dunes  —  and  there  he  found  Monsieur  Jean 
fencing  with  young  de  Cloves,  the  dragoon.  Both  were 
good  fencers,  but  Barty  was  the  finest  fencer  I  ever  met 
in  my  life,  and  always  kept  it  up ;  and  remem])ering  his 
adventure  of  the  previous  day,  it  amused  him  to  affect  a 
careless  nonchalance  about  such  trivial  things  —  ''des 
enfautillages  I" 

*'  You  take  a  turn  with  Jean,  Josselin !''  said  the  <1  ragoon. 

"Oh  I   I'm  out  of  practice  —  and  I've  only  got  one 

t?  y  tv  •      •      •       • 

"Jc  vous  en  prie,  monsieur  de  la  garde!"  said  the 
viscount. 

"  Cette  fois,  alors,  nous  allons  tirer  cn/^onhk  /"  says 
Barty,  and  languidly  dons  the  mask  with  an  atfectcd  air, 
and  iiiakes  a  fuss  about  the  glove  not  suiting  him;  and 
then,  in  spite  of  his  defective  sight,  which  sc^ms  to 
make  no  dilference,  he  lightly  and  gracefully  gives  M. 
Jean  such  a  dressing  as  that  gentleman  had  iu3ver  got  in 
his  life — not  even  from  his  maitre  d'armes :  and  after- 
wards to  young  de  Cluves  the  same.  Well  I  knew  his 
way  of  doing  this  kind  of  thing  ! 

So  Barty  and  M.  and  ^[adame  Jean  became  quite  in- 
timate— and  with  his  usual  indiscretion  I3arty  told  them 
how  he  linked  that  buirs-e3'c,  and  they  were  charmed  ! 

"  \'()us  ctes  impayable,  savez-vous,  mon  cher  !'' says 
M.  Jean — ''vous  avez  tons  les  talents,  et  un  million  dans 
le  gosier  par-dessns  le  marche  !  Si  jainais  je  puis  vous 
etre  do  service,  savez-vous,  com})tez  sur  moi  pour  la 
vie  .  .  ."  said  the  impulsive  viscount  when  they  bade 
each  otiier  good-bye  at  the  end. 


the 


i 


:SI 


Mu.„ 


A  vors,  MoxsrEUK  dr  la  ciaisdi;!'" 


208 


*'  Et   plus   jamais    cl'eiiveloppes    vides,    qnand    vons 
m'ecrirez  !"  says  inadame. 


So  frivolous  time  wore  on,  and  Barty  found  it  pleasant 
to  frivol  in  such  pleasant  company  —  very  })leasant  in- 
deed !  But  when  alone  in  his  garret,  with  his  seton- 
dressing  and  dry-cuppings,  it  was  not  so  gay.  lie  had 
to  confess  to  himseli'  tliat  his  eye  was  getting  slowly 
worse  instead  of  hetter;  darkening  day  by  day;  i^'hI  a 
little  more  retina  had  been  taken  in  by  the  strange 
disease — '''la  peau  de  chagrin,"  as  he  nicknamed  this 
wretched  retina  of  his,  after  Balzac's  famous  story,  lie 
could  still  see  with  the  left  of  it  and  at  the  bottom,  but 
a  veil  had  come  over  the  middle  and  all  the  rest  ;  by 
daylight  he  coukl  sec  through  this  veil,  but  every  object 
he  saw  was  discolored  and  distorted  and  deformed — it  was 
worse  tban  darkness  itself;  and  this  was  so  distressing, 
am'  <o  interfered  with  the  sight  of  the  other  eye,  that  when 
the  sun  went  down,  the  total  darkness  in  the  ruiiu'd  por- 
tion of  his  left  retina  came  as  a  positive  relief.  Jle  took 
all  this  very  de^!))crately  to  heart  and  had  very  terrible 
forebodings.  For  he  had  never  known  an  ache  or  a  pain, 
and  had  iimocently  gloried  all  his  life  in  the  singular 
perfection  of  his  live  wits. 

Then  his  money  was  coming  to  an  end  ;  he  would  soon 
have  to  sing  in  the  streets,  like  Veronese,  with  Lady 
Arciiibald's  guitar. 

Dear  Lady  Archibald  !  Whei\  things  went  wrong  with 
her  she  wonhl  always  laugh,  and  say: 

Les    miseres    du    jour   font    le    bonheur   du  lende- 


(( 


mam 


Til  is  he  wouKl  say  or  sing  to  himself  over  ami  over 
again,  and  go  to  bed  at  night  (jnite hopeful  and  sanguine 
after  a  merry  day  spent  among  his  many  friends ;  and 


209 


over 
uino 
and 


soon  sink  into  sleep,  persuaded  that  his  trouhle  was  a 
bad  dream  which  next  morning  woukl  scatter  and  dis- 
pel. But  when  lie  woke,  it  was  to  find  the  grim  reality 
sitting  by  his  pillow,  and  he  couldn't  dry-cup  it  away. 
The  very  sunshine  was  an  ache  as  he  went  out  and  got 
his  breakfast  with  his  blue  spectacles  on  ;  and  black  care 
would  link  its  bony  arm  in  his  as  he  listlessly  strolled  by 
the  much-soundiiig  sea — and  cling  to  him  close  as  he 
swam  or  dived;  and  he  would  wonder  what  he  had  ever 
done  tluio  so  serious  and  tragic  a  calamity  should  have  be- 
fallen so  light  a  person  as  himself;  who  could  only  dance 
and  sing  and  play  the  fool  to  nuikc  people  laugh — lligo- 
letto — Triboulet — a  mere  grasshopper,  no  ant  or  bee  or 
spider,  not  even  a  third-class  beetle — surely  this  was  not 
according  to  the  eternal  fitness  of  things  ! 

And  thus  in  the  unutterable  utternoss  of  his  dejection 
ho  would  make  himself  such  evil  cheer  that  he  sickened 
with  envy  at  the  mere  sight  of  any  living  thing  that 
could  see  out  of  two  eyes — a  homeless  irresponsible  dog, 
a  hunchback  beggar,  a  crippled  organ-grinder  and  his 
monkey — till  he  met  some  ac(puiintance  ;  even  but  a 
rolling  fishernum  with  a  brown  face  and  honest  blue 
eyes— a  pair  of  them — and  then  he  would  forget  his  sor- 
row and  his  envy  in  chat  and  jokes  and  laughter  with 
him  over  ea(di  a  centime  cigar  ;  ami  was  set  up  in  good 
spirits  for  the  day!  Such  was  IJarty  Jossclin,  the  most 
ready  lover  of  his  kind  that  ever  existed,  the  slave  of  his 
last  impression. 

And  thus  he  lived  under  tiie  sha<low  of  the  sword  of 
Damocles  for  numy  months  ;  on  and  oil",  for  years — in- 
deed, as  long  as  he  lived  at  a,il.  It  is  good  discipline. 
It  rids  one  of  much  superlluous  self-corn j)lacency  and 
puts  a  wholesome  check  on  our  keeping  too  good  a 
conceit   of  ourselves ;    it  prevents  ua   from  caring  too 

14 


11, 


210 


meanly  about  moan  things — too  keenly  abont  our  own 
infinitesimal  personalities  ;  it  makes  us  feel  quick  F^ni- 
patliy  for  those  who  live  under  a  like  condition  :  there 
are  many  such  weapons  dangling  over  the  hejids  of  us 
poor  mortals  by  just  a  hair — a  panoply,  an  armory,  a 
very  arsenal  !  And  we  grow  to  learn  in  tiino  that  when 
the  hair  gives  way  and  the  big  thing  falls,  the  blow  is 
not  half  so  bad  as  the  fright  had  been,  even  if  it  kills  us  ; 
and  more  often  than  not  it  is  but  the  shadow  of  a  sword, 
after  all  ;  a  bogie  that  has  kept  us  off  many  an  evil  track 
— perhaps  even  a  bleasing  in  disguise  !  And  in  the  end, 
down  comes  some  other  sword  from  somewhere  else  and 
cuts  for  us  the  Gordian  knot  of  our  brief  tangled  exist- 
ence, and  solves  the  riddle  and  sets  us  free. 

This  is  a  world  of  suriu'iscs,  where  little  ever  hai)pens 
but  the  unforeseen,  which  is  seldom  worth  moisting  half- 
way !  And  these  moral  reflections  of  mine  are  quite  un- 
necessary and  somewhat  obvious,  but  they  harm  nobody, 
and  are  very  soothing  to  mak-^  and  utter  at  my  time  of 
life.  Pity  the  sorrows  of  a  poor  old  man  and  forgive 
him  his  maudlin  garrulity.  .  .  . 


One  afternoon,  lolling  in  deep  dejection  on  the  top  of 
a  little  san(Jy  hillock,  a  'Slune,"  and  i)lu('king  the  long 
coarse  grass,  he  saw  a  very  tall  elderly  lady,  accompanied 
by  her  maid,  coming  his  way  along  the  asphalt  path  that 
overlooked  the  sea — or  rather,  that  prevented  the  sea 
from  overlooking  the  land  and  overflowing  it  ! 

She  was  in  deep  black  and  wore  a  thick  veil. 

With  a  little  jump  of  surprise  he  recognized  his  iiunt 
Caroline — Lady  Caroline  (J rev — of  all  his  aunts  the  aunt 
who  had  loved  him  the  best  as  a  boy  —  whom  he  had 
loved  the  best. 

She  was  a  Roman  Catholic,  and  very  devout  indeed — a 


211 


widow,  and  childless  now.  And  between  her  and  Barty 
a  coolness  had  fallen  during  tlie  last  few  years— a  heavy 
raw  thick  mist  of  cold  estrangement ;  and  all  on  account 
of  his  London  life  and  the  notoriety  ho  had  adiicved 
there;  things  of  Avhich  she  disapproved  eiitii-cly.  and 
thought  "unworthy  of  a  gentleman":  and  wlio  can 
bhinie  her  for  thinking  so  ? 

She  had  at  first  \vritt(;n  to  him  long  letters  of  remon- 
strance  and  good  advice  ;  whicdi  he  gave  up  ans\v;'riiig, 
after  a  while.  And  when  they  met  in  society,  her  man- 
ner had  grown  chill  and  distant  and  severe. 

lie  hadn't  seen  or  heard  of  his  aunt  Caroline  for 
three  or  four  years;  but  at  the  sudden  sight  of  her  a 
wave  of  teiuler  childish  remend)rance  swept  over  him, 
and  his  heart  l)eat  quite  warmly  to  her:  allliction  is 
a  solvent  of  many  things,  and  iirst-cousin  to  forgive- 
ness. 

She  passed  without  looking  his  way,  and  he  jumped 
up  and  followed  her,  and  said  : 

"Oh,  Aunt  Caroline  !  won't  you  even  speak  to  me  ?" 

Si?e  started  violently,  and  turned  round,  and  cried  : 
''  Oh,  Barty,  Barty,  where  have  you  been  all  these 
years  ?"  and  seized  both  his  hands,  and  shook  all  over. 

"Oh,  Barty— my  beloved  little  liarty— take  me  some- 
where where  we  can  sit  down  ami  talk.  I've  been  thiidx- 
ing  of  you  very  much,  liarty— I've  lost  my  poor  son— he 
died  last  Christuuis !  I  was  afraid  you  had  forgotlen 
my  existence  !  I  was  thiidving  of  you  the  very  nujuient 
you  si)oke  !" 

The  maid  left  them,  jind  she  took  his  arm  ami  they 
found  a  seat. 

She  put  up  her  veil  and  looked  at  him:  there  was  a 
great  likeness  between  them  in  s})it(^  of  the  difference  of 
ago.     She  had  been  his  father's  favorite  sister  (some  ten 


1c 


212 


years  younger  than  Lord  Runswick);  and  she  was  very 
handsome  still,  though  about  lifty-five. 

"Oh,  Barty,  my  darling — how  things  have  gone  wrong 
between  us  !  Is  it  all  my  doing  ?  Oh,  I  hope  not !  .  .  ." 
And  she  kissed  him. 

"How  like,  how  like!  And  you're  getting  a  little 
black  and  bulgy  under  the  eyes — espeeially  the  left  one — 
and  so  did  he,  at  just  about  your  age  !  And  how  thin 
you  are  !" 

"I  don't  think  anything  need  ever  go  wrong  between 
us  again.  Aunt  Caroline  !  1  am  a  very  altered  person, 
and  a  very  unlucky  one  \" 

"Tell  me,  dear!" 

And  he  told  her  all  his  story,  from  the  fatal  quarrel 
with  her  brother  Lord  Archibald — and  the  true  history 
of  that  quarrel ;  and  all  that  had  happened  since  :  he  had 
nothing  to  keep  back. 

She  frequently  wept  a  little,  for  truth  was  in  every 
tone  of  his  voice;  and  when  it  came  to  the  story  of  his 
lost  eye,  she  wept  very  much  iiuleed.  And  his  need  of  af- 
fection, of  female  atTection  especially,  and  of  kinship,  was 
so  immense  that  he  clung  to  this  most  kind  and  loving 
woman  as  if  she'd  been  his  mother  come  back  from  the 
grave,  or  his  dear  Lady  Archibald. 

This  meeting  made  a  great  diiTerence  to  Barty  in  many 
ways  —  nuide  amends!  Lady  Caroline  meant  to  pass 
the  winter  at  Malines,  of  all  places  in  the  world.  The 
Archbishop  was  her  friend,  and  she  was  friends  also  with 
one  or  two  priests  at  the  seminary  there.  She  was  by  no 
means  rich,  having  but  an  annuity  of  m)t  quite  three 
hundred  a  year;  and  it  soon  became  the  dearest  wish  of 
her  heart  that  Barty  should  live  with  her  for  a  while,  and 
be  nursed  by  her  if  he  wanted  nursing  ;  and  she  thought 
he  did.     Jiesides,  it  would  be  convenient  ou  account  of 


Jk    y\A 


'  I    AM    A   VKUY    Al/IKKKD   1'EHSON!'" 


214 


his  doctor,  M.  Noiret,  of  the  University  of  Louvain, 
which  was  near  Malines — half  an  liour  by  train. 

And  Barty  was  only  too  ghid;  this  warm  old  love  and 
devotion  had  snddenly  dropped  on  to  him  by  some  hap- 
py enchantment  out  of  the  skies  at  a  moment  of  sore 
need-  And  it  was  with  a  passion  of  gratitude  that  he 
accepted  his  aunt's  proposals. 

He  well  knew,  also,  how  it  was  in  him  to  brighten  her 
lonely  life,  almost  every  hour  of  it — and  promised  him- 
self that  she  should  not  be  a  loser  by  her  kindness  to 
Mr.  Nobody  of  Nowhere.  He  remembered  her  love  of 
fun,  and  pretty  poetry,  and  little  French  songs,  and  droll 
chat — and  nice  cheerful  meals  tete-ii-tete — and  he  was 
good  at  all  these  things.  And  how  fond  she  was  of  read- 
ing out  loud  to  him  !  The  time  might  soon  arrive  when 
that  would  be  a  blessing  indeed. 

Indeed,  a  new  interest  had  come  into  his  life — not  alto- 
gether a  selfish  interest  either — but  one  well  worth  liv- 
ing for,  though  it  was  so  unlike  any  interest  that  had  ever 
filled  his  life  before.  lie  had  been  essentially  a  man's 
man  hitherto,  in  spite  of  his  gay  light  love  for  lovely 
woman ;  a  good  comrade  par  excellence,  a  frolicsome 
chum,  a  rollicking  boon  -  companion,  a  jolly  pal!  lie 
wanted  quite  desperately  to  love  something  staid  and 
feminine  and  gainly  and  well  bred,  whatever  its  age  ! 
some  kind  soft  warm  thing  in  petticoats  and  thin  shoes, 
with  no  luiir  on  its  face,  and  a  voice  that  wasn't  male  ! 

Nor  did  her  piety  frighten  him  very  much,  lie  soon 
found  that  she  was  no  longer  the  over-zealous  proselytiz- 
ing busybody  of  the  Cross — l)ut  innnensely  a  woman  of 
the  world,  making  immense  allowances.  All  roads  lead 
to  Home  (di*^  on !),  except  a  few  which  converge  in  the 
opposite  direction  ;  but  even  IJoman  roads  lead  to  this 
wide  tolerance  in  the  end — for  those  of  a  rich  warm  nat- 


215 


lire  who  have  been  well  battered  by  life ;  and  Lady  Car- 
oline had  been  very  thoroughly  battered  indeed:  a  V)ad 
husband  —  a  bad  son,  her  only  child!  both  dead,  but 
deeply  loved  and  lamented ;  and  in  her  heart  of  hearts 
there  lurked  a  sad  susi^icion  that  her  piety  (so  deep  and 
earnest  and  sincere)  liad  not  bettered  their  badness — on 
the  contrary,  perhaps  !  and  had  driven  her  13arty  from 
her  when  he  needed  her  most. 

Now  that  his  need  of  her  was  so  great,  greater  than  it 
hjid  ever  been  before,  she  would  take  good  care  tlvit  no 
piety  of  hers  should  ever  drive  him  away  from  her  again; 
slie  felt  almost  penitent  and  apologetic  for  having  done 
what  she  had  known  to  be  right — the  woman  in  her  had 
at  last  outgrown  the  nun. 

She  almost  began  to  doubt  whether  she  had  not  been 
led  to  selfishly  overrate  the  paramount  importance  of  the 
exclusive  salvation  of  her  own  particular  soul ! 

And  then  his  frank,  fresh  look  and  manner,  and 
honest  boyish  voice,  so  unmistakably  sincere,  and  that 
mild  and  magnificent  eye,  so  bright  and  humorous  still, 
'*  so  like — so  like  I"  which  couldn't  even  see  her  lov- 
ing, anxious  face.  .  .  .  Thank  Heaven,  there  was  still 
one  eye  left  that  she  could  appeal  to  with  both  her 
own  ! 

And  what  a  chihl  he  had  been,  poor  dear — the  very 
pearl  of  the  Kohans  !  What  liohaii  of  tliem  all  was  ever 
a  patch  on  this  poor  bastard  of  Antoinette  Josselin's, 
either  for  beauty,  pluck,  or  mother- wit — or  even  for 
honor,  if  it  came  to  that?  Why,  a  ([uixotic  scruple  of 
honor  had  ruined  him,  and  she  was  Kohan  enough  to 
understand  what  the  temptation  had  been  the  other 
way  :  she  had  seen  the  beautiful  bad  hidy  ! 

And,  i)ure  as  her  own  life  had  been,  she  was  no  puri- 

kuowl- 


tan,  but  of  a  church  well  versed  in  th 


ipesi 


216 


edge  of  our  poor  Aveak  frail  humanity ;  she  has  told  me 
all  about  it,  and  I  listened  between  the  words. 

So  during  the  remainder  of  her  stay  at  Blankenberghe 
he  was  very  much  with  Lady  Caroline,  and  rediscov- 
ered what  a  pleasant  and  lively  companion  she  could 
be  —  especially  at  meals  (she  was  fond  of  good  food 
of  a  plain  and  wholesome  kind,  and  took  good  care  to 
get  it). 

She  ha^l  her  little  narrownesses,  to  be  sure,  and  was 
not  hail-fellow-well-met  with  everybody,  like  him  ;  and 
did  not  think  very  much  of  giddy  little  viscountesses 
with  straddling  loud-voiced  Flemish  husbands,  nor  of 
familiar  facetious  commercial  millionaires,  of  whom 
Barty  numbered  two  or  three  among  his  adorers;  nor 
even  of  the  "highly  born"  Irish  wives  of  Belgian  gen- 
erals and  all  tliat.     Madame  de  Cleves  was  an  O'Brien. 

These  were  old  ingrained  Rohan  prejudices,  and  she 
was  too  old  herself  to  alter. 

But  she  loved  the  good  fishermen  whose  picturesque 
boats  made  such  a  charming  group  on  the  sands  at  sun- 
set, and  also  their  wives  and  children  ;  and  here  she  and 
her  nephew  were  "  bien  d'accord." 

I  fear  her  ladyship  would  not  have  appreciated  very 
keenly  the  rising  splendor  of  a  certain  not  altogether 
unimportant  modern  house  in  Barge  Yard,  Bucklers- 
bury — and  here  she  would  have  been  wrong.  The  time 
has  come  when  we  throw  the  handkerchief  at  fenuile 
llohans,  we  Maurices  and  our  like.  I  have  not  done  so 
myself,  it  is  true ;  but  not  from  any  rooted  antipathy  to 
any  daughter  of  a  hundred  earls — nor  yet  from  any  par- 
ticular diffidence  on  my  own  part. 

Anyhow,  Lady  Caroline  loved  to  hear  all  Barty  had  to 
say  of  his  gay  life  among  the  beauty,  rank,  and  fashion 
of  Blankenberghe.     She  was  very  civil  to  the  handsome 


217 


Irish  Madame  de  Cloves,  nee  O'Brien,  and  listened  po- 
litely to  the  family  history  of  the  O'Briens  and  tliat  of 
the  de  Cleveses  too  :  and  learnt,  without  indecent  sur- 
prise, or  any  emotion  of  any  kind  whatever,  what  she 
had  never  heard  before — namely,  that  in  the  early  part 
of  the  twelfth  century  a  liohan  de  Whitby  had  married 
an  O'Brien  of  Bally wrotte;  and  other  prehistoric  facts  of 
equal  probability  and  importance. 

She  didn't  believe  much  in  people's  twelfth -century 
reminiscences  ;  she  didn't  even  believe  in  those  of  her 
own  family,  who  didn't  believe  in  them  either,  or  trouble 
about  them  in  the  least ;  and  I  dare  say  they  were  quite 
right. 

Anyhow,  when  people  solemnly  talked  about  such 
things  it  made  her  rather  sorry.  But  she  bore  up  for 
Barty's  sake,  and  the  resigned,  half-humorous  courtesy 
with  which  she  assented  to  tliose  fables  was  really  more 
humiliating  to  a  sensitive,  haughty  soul  than  any  mere 
supercilious  disdain ;  not  that  she  over  wished  to  humil- 
iate, but  she  was  easily  bored,  and  thought  that  kind  of 
conversation  vulgar,  futile,  and  rather  grotesque. 

Indeed,  she  grew  quite  fond  of  Madame  de  Cloves  and 
the  splendid  young  dragoon,  and  the  sweet  little  black- 
haired  daughter  with  lovely  blue  eyes,  who  sang  so 
charmingly.  For  they  w^ere  singularly  charming  people 
in  every  way,  the  de  Cleveses ;  and  that's  a  way  Irish 
people  often  have — as  well  as  of  being  proud  of  their 
ancient  blood.  There  is  no  more  innocent  weakness. 
I  have  it  very  strongly  —  moi  qui  vous  parle  —  on  the 
maternal  side.  My  mother  was  a  Blake  of  Derrydown, 
a  fact  that  nobody  would  have  known  nidess  she  now 
and  then  accidentally  happened  to  mention  it  herself,  or 
else  my  father  did.  And  so  I  take  the  opportunity  of 
slipping  it  in  here — just  out  of  filial  piety  ! 


218 


So  the  late  autumn  of  that  year  found  Harty  and  his 
aunt  at  Malines,  or  Mechelen,  as  it  calls  itself  in  its  na- 
tive tongue. 

They  had  comfortable  lodgings  of  extraordinary  cheap- 
ness in  one  of  the  dullest  streets  of  that  most  jiicturesque 
but  dead-alive  little  town,  Avhere  the  grass  grew  so  thick 
between  the  paving-stones  here  and  there  that  the  brew- 
ers' dray-horses  might  have  browsed  in  the  '' Graiul 
Brul " — a  magnificent  but  generally  deserted  thorough- 
fare leading  from  the  railway  station  to  the  Place 
d'Armes,  where  rose  still  unfinished  the  colossal  tower 
of  one  of  the  oldest  and  finest  cathedrals  in  the  world, 
whose  chimes  wafted  themselves  every  half  -  quarter  of 
an  hour  across  the  dreamy  flats  for  miles  and  miles,  ac- 
cording to  the  wind,  that  one  might  realize  how  slow 
was  the  flight  of  time  in  that  particular  part  of  King 
Leopold's  dominions. 

"  '  And  from  a  tall  tower  in  the  town 
Death  looks  gigantically  down  !'  " 

said  Barty  to  his  aunt — quoting  (or  misquoting)  a  bard 
they  were  very  fond  of  just  then,  as  they  slowly  walked 
down  ths  ^Hlrand  Brul"  in  solitude  together,  from  the 
nineteenth  century  to  the  fourteenth  in  less  than  twenty 
minutes  —  or  three  chimes  from  St.  Rombault,  or  fifty 
skrieks  from  the  railway  station. 

But  for  these  a  spirit  of  stillness  and  mediaeval  melan- 
choly brooded  over  the  ({uaint  old  city  and  great  archi- 
episcopal  see  and  most  important  railway  station  in  all 
Belgium.  Magnificent  old  houses  in  carved  stone  Avitli 
wrought-iron  balconies  were  to  be  had  for  rents  that 
were  almost  nominal.  From  the  tall  windows  of  some  of 
these  a  frugal,  sleepy,  priest-ridden  old  nobility  looked 
down  on  broad  and  splendid  streets  hardly  ever  trodden 


219 


by  any  feet  but  their  own,  or  those  of  some  stealthy  Jes- 
uit priest,  or  Sister  of  Mercy. 

Only  (luring  the  Kerniesse,  or  at  carnival-time,  when 
noisy  revellers  of  either  sex  and  ungainly  processions  of 
tipsy  masques  and  mummers  waked  Mechelen  out  of  its 
long  sleep,  and  all  the  town  seemed  one  vast  estaminet, 
did  one  feel  one's  self  to  be  alive.  Even  at  night,  and  in 
the  small  hours,  frisky  masques  and  dominoes  walked 
the  moonlit  streets,  and  made  loud  old  Flemish  media3- 
val  love,  ^  la  Teniers. 

There  was  a  beautiful  botanical  garden,  through  which 
a  river  flowed  under  tall  trees,  ami  turned  the  wheels  of 
the  oldest  flour-nulls  in  Flanders.  This  was  a  favorite 
resort  of  ]5arty's — and  he  had  it  pretty  much  to  himself. 

A]ul  for  Ladv  Caroline  there  were,  besides  St.  Kom- 
bault,  quite  half-a-dozen  churches  almost  as  magnificent 
if  not  so  big,  and  in  them  as  many  as  you  could  wish  of 
old  Flemish  nuisters,  beginning  with  Peter  Paul  Rubens, 
who  pervades  the  land  of  his  birth  very  much  as  Michael 
Angelo  pervades  Florence  ami  Rome. 

And  these  dim  places  of  Catholic  worship  were  gener- 
ously open  to  all,  every  day  and  all  day  long,  and  never 
empty  of  worshippers,  high  and  low,  prostrate  in  the 
dust,  or  kneeling  with  their  arms  extended  and  their 
heads  in  the  air,  their  wide-open,  immovable,  unblink- 
ing eyes  hypnotized  into  stone  by  the  cross  and  the 
crown  of  thorns.  Mostly  peasant  women,  these  :  with 
their  black  hoods  falling  from  their  shoulders,  and  stiff 
little  close  white  caps  that  hid  the  hair. 

Out  of  cool  shadowy  recesses  of  fretted  stone  and  ad- 
mirably carved  wood  emanations  seemed  to  rise  as  from 
the  long-forgotten  past — tons  of  incense  burnt  huiulreds 
of  years  ago,  and  millions  of  closely  packed  supplicants, 
rich  and  poor,  following  each  other  in  secula  seculorumi 


220 


Lady  Caroline  spent  many  of  her  liours  haunting  these 
crypts — and  praying  there. 

At  the  back  of  their  house  in  tlie  Rue  des  Ursulines 
Blanches,  Barty's  bedroom  window  overlooked  the  play- 
ground of  the  convent  **des  ScBurs  Redemptoristines^': 
all  noble  ladies,  most  beautifully  dressed  in  scarlet  and 
ultramarine,  with  long  snowy  veils,  and  who  were  waited 
upon  by  non-noble  sisters  in  garments  of  a  like  hue  but 
less  expensive  texture. 

So  at  least  sakl  little  Finche  Torfs,  the  daughter  of  the 
house — little  Frau,  as  Lady  Caroline  called  her,  and  who 
seems  to  have  been  one  of  the  best  creatures  in  the 
world  ;  she  became  warmly  attached  to  both  her  lodgers, 
who  reciprocated  the  feeling  in  full ;  it  was  her  chief 
pleasure  to  wait  on  them  and  look  after  them  at  all  times 
of  the  day,  though  Lady  Caroline  had  already  a  devoted 
maid  of  her  own. 

Little  Fran's  father  was  a  well-to-do  burgher  with  a 
prosperous  ironmongery  in  the  ^'  Petit  Brul." 

This  was  his  private  house,  where  he  pursued  his  hob- 
by, for  he  was  an  amateur  photographer,  very  fond  of 
photographing  his  kind  and  simple-minded  old  wife,  who 
was  always  attired  in  rich  Brussels  silks  and  Mechelon 
lace  on  purpose.  She  even  cooked  in  them,  though  not 
for  her  lodgers,  whose  mid-day  and  evening  meals  were 
sent  from  **La  Cigogne,"  close  by,  in  four  large  round 
tins  that  litted  into  each  other,  ami  were  carried  in  a 
wicker-work  cylindrical  basket.  And  it  was  little  Fran's 
delight  to  descant  on  the  qualities  of  the  menu  as  she 
dished  and  served  it.     I  will  iiofc  attempt  to  do  so. 

But  after  little  Frau  had  cleaved  it  all  away,  Barty 
would  descant  on  the  qualities  of  certain  English  dishes 
ho  remembered,  to  the  immense  amusement  of  Aunt 
Caroliuo,  who  was  reasonably  fond  of  what  is  good  to  eat. 


P 


321 


these 


He  would  paint  in  words  (he  was  better  in  words  than 
any  other  mediam — oil,  water,  or  distemper)  the  boiled 
leg  of  mutton,  not  overdone  ;  the  mashed  turnips ;  tlie 
mealy  potato ;  the  caper-sauce.  He  would  imitate  the 
action  of  the  carver  and  the  sound  of  tlje  carving-knife 
making  its  first  keen  cut  while  the  hot  pink  gravy  viws 
down  the  sides,  ^riien  he  would  wordily  paint  a  Freiu'h 
roast  chicken  and  its  rich  brown  gravy  and  its  water- 
cresses;  the  pommes  ^autees;  the  (!risp,  curly  salade  aux 
fines  herbes  !  And  Lady  Caroline,  still  huni^ry,  would 
laugh  till  her  eyes  watered,  as  well  as  her  mouth. 

When  it  came  to  the  sweets,  the  apple-puddings  and 
gooseberry-pies  and  Devonshire  cream  and  brown  sugar, 
there  was  no  more  laughing,  for  then  Barty's  talent 
soared  to  real  genius — and  genius  is  a  serious  thing. 
And  as  to  his  celery  and  Stilton  cheese —  liut  there  ! 
it's  lui.ch-time,  and  I'm  beginning  to  feel  a  little  peck- 
ish myself.  .  .  . 

Every  morning  when  it  was  fine  Barty  and  his  aunt 
would  take  an  airing  round  the  town,  which  was  en- 
closed by  a  ditch  where  there  was  good  skating  in  the 
winter,  on  long  skates  that  went  very  fast,  but  couldn't 
cut  figures,  8  or  3  ! 

There  were  no  fortifications  or  ramparts  left.  But  a 
few  of  the  magnificent  old  bri(;k  gateways  still  remained, 
admitting  you  to  the  most  wonderful  old  streets  with 
tall  pointed  houses — clean  little  slums,  where  women  sat 
on  their  door-steps  niiiking  the,  most  beautiful  lace  in 
the  world  —  odd  nooks  and  corners  and  narrow  ways 
where  it  was  easy  to  lose  one's  self,  small  as  the  town 
really  was  ;  innumerable  little  toy  bridges  over  toy  canals 
one  could  have  leaped  at  a  bound,  overlooked  by  fiuaint, 
irregular  little  dwellings,  of  co'ors  that  had  once  been 
as  those  of  the  rainbow,  but  vdiich  time  had  mellowed 


222 


into  divine  harmonies,  Jis  it  does  ;ill  it  touches — from 
grand  okl  masters  to  oak  palinjjs  round  English  parks  ; 
from  Venice  to  Mechelen  and  its  hice ;  from  a  disaji- 
pointed  first  love  to  a  great  sorrow. 

Occasionally  a  certain  distinguished  old  man  of  soldier- 
like aspect  would  pass  them  on  horsehack,  and  gaze  at 
their  two  tall  liritish  figures  with  a  look  of  curious  and 
benign  interest,  as  if  ho  mentally  wished  them  well,  and 
well  away  from  this  drear  limbo  of  jjenitence  and  exile 
and  expiation. 

They  learnt  that  he  was  French,  and  a  famous  gen- 
eral, and  that  his  name  was  Changarriier ;  and  they  un- 
derstood that  public  virtue  has  to  be  atoned  for. 

And  he  somehow  got  into  the  habit  of  bowing  to  them 
with  a  good  smile,  and  they  would  smile  and  bow  back 
again.  Beyond  this  they  never  exchanged  a  word,  but 
this  little  outward  show  and  ceremony  of  kindly  look 
and  sympathetic  gesture  always  gave  them  a  pleasant 
moment  and  helped  to  pass  the  morning. 

All  the  people  they  met  were  to  Lady  Caroline  like  peo- 
ple in  a  dream  :  silent  priests  ;  velvet- footed  nuns,  who 
were  much  to  her  taste;  (|uiet  peasant  womon,  m  black 
cloaks  and  hoods,  driving  bullock-carts  orcii'-t  .*  -.iwn  by 
dogs,  six  or  eight  of  these  inextrlcal)iy  harnessed  log  -ther 
and  panting  for  dear  life  ;  blue-bloused  men  in  French 
caps,  but  bigger  and  blonder  thti  .  Frenchmen,  and  less 
given  to  ipigrammatic  repartee,  with  mild,  blue,  beery 
eyes,  dffciu'  dv  fete,  and  a  look  of  health  ami  stolid  amia- 
bility; sturdy  green-coated  little  soldiers  with  cock-feath- 
ered brigaml  hats  of  shiny  bla(;k,  the  brim  turned  up 
over  the  right  eye  and  ear  that  they  might  the  more 
conveniently  take  a  goo'l  aim  at  the  foe  before  he  ske- 
daddled at  the  mere  siglit  of  them  ;  fat,  comfortable 
burgesses  and  their  wives,  so  like   their  ancestors  who 


228 


:s; 


drink  beer  out  of  long  glasses  and  smoke  long  chiy  pipes 
on  the  walls  of  the  Louvre  and  the  Kational  Gallery 
that  they  seemed  like  old  friends;  and  quaint  old  heavy 
children  who  didn't  make  much  noise ! 

And  whenever  they  spoke  French  to  you,  these  good 
people,  they  said  '*  savez-vous  ?"  every  other  second  ; 
and  whenever  they  spoke  Flemish  to  each  other  it 
sounded  so  much  like  your  own  tongue  as  it  is  spoken 
in  the  north  of  Fngland  that  you  wondered  why  on  earth 
you  couldn't  understand  a  single  word. 

Now  and  then,  from  under  a  hood,  a  handsome  dark 
face  with  Spanish  eyes  would  peer  out — eloquent  of  tiie 
past  history  of  the  Low  Couiitries,  which  Jiarty  knew 
much  better  than  L  But  I  believe  there  was  once  a 
Spanish  invasion  or  occupation  of  some  kind,  and  I  dare 
say  the  fair  Belgians  are  none  the  worse  for  it  to-day. 
(It  might  even  have  been  good  for  some  of  us,  perhaps, 
if  that  ill-starred  Armada  hadn't  come  so  entirely  to 
grief.     I'm  fond  of  big,  tawny-black  eyes.) 

All  this,  so  novel  and  so  strange,  was  a  perpetual  feast 
for  Lady  Caroline.  And  they  bought  nice,  cheap,  savory 
things  on  the  way  home,  to  eke  out  the  lunch  from  "  la 
Cigogne.'"' 

In  the  afternoon  Barty  would  take  a  solitary  walk  in 
the  open  country,  or  along  one  of  those  endless  straight 
chauf<sL'es,  paved  in  the  miihlh*,  and  bordered  by  equidis- 
tant poplars  on  either  side,  and  leading  from  town  to 
town,  aiul  tiie  monotonous  perspective  of  wliich  is  so 
desolating  to  heart  and  eye  ;  backwards  or  forwards,  it 
is  always  the  same,  with  a  Hat  sameness  of  outlook  to 
right  and  left,  and  every  4r)(>  seconds  the  chiuie  would 
boom  and  ilounder  lieavily  by,  with  a  dozen  sharp  rail- 
way whistles  after  it,  like  swordllsh  after  a  whale,  pierc- 
ing it  through  and  tbrough. 


224 


Barty  evidently  had  all  this  in  his  mind  when  he  wrote 
the  song  of  the  seminarist  in  "  Gleams/'  beginning : 

"  Twas  April,  and  the  sky  was  clear, 
An  east  wind  blowing  lieenly  ; 
Tlie  sun  gave  out  but  little  eiieer, 

For  all  it  shore  serenely. 
The  wayside  poplars,  all  arow, 
For  many  a  weary  mile  did  throw 
Down  on  the  dusty  Hags  below 

Their  shadows,  i)icked  out  eleaidy." 
Etc.,  etc,  etc. 

(Isn't  it  just  like  Barty  to  begin  a  lyric  that  will  prob- 
ably last  as  long  as  tin  English  language  with  an  inno- 
cent jingle  worthy  of  a  school-boy  ?) 

After  dinner,  in  the  evening,  it  was  Lat^y  Caroline's 
delight  to  read  aloud,  Avhile  Barty  smoked  his  cigarettes 
and  inexpensive  cigars — a  concession  on  her  part  to 
make  him  happy,  aiul  keep  him  as  much  with  her  as  she 
could  ;  and  she  grew  even  to  like  the  smell  so  much  that 
once  or  twice,  when  he  went  to  Antwerp  for  a  couple  of 
days  to  stay  with  Tescheles,  she  actually  had  to  burn 
some  of  his  tobacco  on  a  red-hot  shovel,  for  the  scent 
of  it  seemed  to  spoil  his  name  for  her  and  make  his  ab- 
sence less  complete. 

Thus  she  read  to  h'un  J!^^mon«J,  ffi/palia,  Never  too  Late 
to  Mend,  Les  Mdtfres  t^'oiuicitrs,  La  Marc  an  Diahle,  and 
other  delightful  books,  English  and  French,  which  were 
sent  once  a  week  from  a  circulating  library  in  Brussels. 
How  they  blessed  thy  name,  good  liuron  Tauchnitz  ! 

*'0h,  Aunt  Caroline,  if  I  could  only  illustrate  books  ! 
If  I  could  only  illustrate  Ki^mond  ami  draw  a  passable 
Beatrix  coming  down  the  old  staircase  at  Castlewood 
with  her  candle  1"  said  Barty,  one  night. 

That  was  not  to  bo.     Another  was  to  illustrate  Es- 


225 


mond,  a  poor  devil  wlio,  oddly  enough,  was  then  living 
in  the  next  street  and  sntTering  from  a  like  disorder.* 

As  a  return,  Barty  would  sing  to  her  all  he  knew,  in 
five  languages — three  of  which  neither  of  th^ni  quite 
understood  —  accompanying  himself  on  the  piano  or 
guitar.  Sometimes  she  would  play  for  him  accompani- 
ments that  were  beyond  his  rea(di,  for  she  was  a  decent- 
ly taught  musician  who  could  read  fairly  well  at  sight; 
whereas  Barty  didn't  know  a  single  note,  and  picked  up 
everything  by  ^ar.  She  practised  these  accompaniments 
every  afternoon,  as  assiduously  as  any  school-girl. 

Then  they  would  sit  \\\)  very  late,  as  they  always  had 
so  much  to  talk  about  —  what  had  just  been  read  or 
played  or  sung,  and  many  other  things:  the  present,  the 
past,  and  the  future.  All  theii  old  alT'n;tion  for  each 
other  had  come  back,  trebled  and  (|uadrupled  by  pity  on 
one  side,  gratitude  on  the  other — and  a  little  remorse  on 
both.  Ami  there  were  long  arrears  to  nuike  up,  and  life 
was  short  and  uncertain. 

Sometimes  TAbbe  Lefebvre,  one  of  the  professors  at 
the  semiiuiire  and  an  old  friend  of  Ladv  Caroline's, 
would  come  to  drink  tea,  and  talk  politics,  which  ran 
higii  in  Mecheleu.  lie  was  a  nu)ht  accomplished  and 
delightful  Krenchnian,  who  wrote  i)oetry  and  adored  Bal- 
zac— and  even  owned  to  a  t'oudness  for  good  old  l*aul  do 
Kock,  of  whom  it  is  said  that  when  the  news  of  his  death 
rea(;bed  IMus  the  Xinth,  his  Holiness  dropped  a  tear  and 
exclaimed  : 

**Mio  caro  Paolo  di  Kocco  I'' 

Now  and  then  the  Abbe  would  bring  with  hitn  a  dis- 
tinguished young  priest,  a  Dominican — also  a  professor; 


*  ("  Uii  iniillu'iircux,  vOlu  de  noir, 

Qui  UK!  resHomblait  coinine  uu  frt^re  .  .  ." — Ed.) 


16 


22G 


Fiitlior  Louis,  of  the  priiicoly  lioiise  of  Arein1)evg,  wlio 
died  a  Ciirdiiud  tliree  years  airo. 

Fatlier  Louis  liad  an  adnnral)le  and  highly  cultivated 
musical  gift,  and  played  to  them  IJeethoveu  Jiiul  ]\[ozart, 
Schubert,  (Jhopin,  ami  Schumann  —  and  th's  music,  as 
long  as  it  lasted  (aud  for  some  lime  after),  was  to  liarty 
as  great  a  source  of  consolation  as  of  unspeakahlc  delight; 
ami  therefore  to  his  aunt  also,  'i'hoiigh  I'm  afraid  she 
preferred  any  little  i'^reiicli  son.g  of  J^iarty's  to  all  the 
Sclunnanns  in  the  world. 

First  of  all,  the  ])riest  would  play  the  "  ^Nfooidiglit  So- 
nata," let  us  say;  and  Uai'ty  would  lean  hack  and  listen 
with  his  e\'es  shut,  and  almost  believe  that  liecthoven 
was  talking  to  him  like  a  father,  ai.d  pointing  out  to  him 
howsnudi  was  the  ditferencc,  really,  between  the  greatest 
earthly  joy  and  the  greatest  earthly  sorroAv  :  Ihese  were 
not  like  black  and  white,  but  mci'cly  dinVrcnt  shades  of 
gray,  as  on  moonlit  things  a  long  way  olT  I  ami  Time, 
what  a  reconciler  it  was — like  dislaucel  and  Death,  what 
a  perfect  resolution  of  all  possible  discords,  and  how  cer- 
tain I  and  our  own  little  life,  how  short,  ami  wilhout  im- 
portance I  what  matters  whether  it's  to-day,  this  small 
individual  llutter  of  ours:  or  was  a,  lunidrcd  years  ago; 
or  will  be  a  humlred  vcars  henciil  it  has  or  had  to  be  u'ot 
tlirough — ami  it's  better  past  than  to  come. 

'"  It  all  leads  to  (he  same  di\ine  issue,  my  poor  friciub" 
said  In'cthovcn:  "  why.  just  see  hcrt'  —  I'm  stone-deaf, 
and  can't  hear  a  note  of  what  I'm  singing  to  you  I  l>ut 
it  is  not  al)out  find  I  weep,  when  1  am  wee|)ing.  it  was 
terrible  when  it  lirst  canu'  on.  my  deafness,  and  I  could 
no  longer  hear  the  shcjiherd's  ])ipe  or  the  song  of  the 
lark;  but  it's  well  worth  going  deaf,  to  hcai'  all  that  /do. 
I  have  to  write  everything  down,  and  read  il  to  myself; 
and  my  tears  fall  on  the  ruled  paper,  ami  blister  the  linos, 


H 

P3 


O 
C 

r 

M 

c 

H 

OJ 

O 


I  lies. 


228 


and  make  the  notes  run  into  each  other ;  and  when  I  try 
to  blot  it  all  out,  there's  that  still  left  on  the  page,  which, 
turned  into  sound  by  good  father  Louis  the  Dominican, 
will  tell  you,  if  you  can  oidy  hear  it  aright,  what  is  not 
to  be  told  in  any  human  speech  ;  not  even  that  of  Plato, 
or  Marcus  Aurelius,  or  Erasmus,  or  Shakespeare  ;  not 
even  that  of  Christ  himself,  who  speaks  through  me  from 
His  unknown  grave,  because  I  am  deaf  and  cannot  hear 
the  distracting  words  of  men — poor,  paltry  words  at  their 
best,  which  mean  so  many  things  at  once  that  they  mean 
just  nothing  at  all.  It's  a  Tower  of  Babel.  Just  stop 
your  ears  and  listen  with  your  heart  and  you  will  hear  all 
that  you  can  see  when  you  shut  your  eyes  or  have  lost 
them  —  and  those  are  the  only  realities,  mein  armer 
Barty  !" 

Then  the  good  Mozart  would  say  : 

"Lieber  Barty  —  I'm  so  stupid  about  earthly  things 
that  I  could  never  even  say  Boh  to  a  goose,  so  I  can't 
give  you  any  good  advice  ;  all  my  heart  overflowed  into 
my  brain  when  I  was  quite  a  little  boy  and  made  music 
for  grown-u])  people  to  hear ;  from  the  day  of  my  birth 
to  my  lifth  birthday  I  had  gone  on  remembering  every- 
thing, but  learning  nothing  new — remembering  all  that 
music  ! 

*'Aiul  I  went  on  remembering  more  and  more  till  I 
was  thirty-tive  ;  and  even  then  there  was  such  a  lot  more 
of  it  where  that  came  from  that  it  tired  me  to  try  and 
remember  so  much  —  and  I  went  back  thither.  And 
thither  back  shall  you  go  too,  Barty  —  when  you  are 
some  thirty  years  older  ! 

"And  you  already  know  from  me  how  pleasant  life  is 
there — how  sunny  and  genial  and  gay  ;  and  how  graceful 
and  innocent  and  amiable  and  well-bred  the  natives — and 
what  beautiful  prayers  we  sing,  and  what  lovely  gavottes 


229 


and  minuets  we  dance — and  how  tenderly  Ave  make  love 
— and  wluit  funny  tricks  we  play  !  and  how  handsome 
and  well  dressed  and  kind  we  all  are — and  the  likes  of 
you,  how  welcome  !  Thirty  years  is  soon  over,  Barty, 
Barty  !     Bel  Mazetto  !     Ila,  ha  !  good  I" 

Then  says  the  good  Schnbert : 

*'  I'm  a  loud,  rollicking,  beer-drinking  Kerl,  I  am  I  Icii 
bin  ein  lustiger  Student,  mein  Pardy  ;  and  full  of  droll 
practical  Jokes  ;  worse  than  even  you,  when  you  were 
a  young  scapegrace  in  the  Guards,  and  wrenched  off 
knockers,  and  ran  away  with  a  poor  policcnum's  hat  ! 
But  1  don't  put  my  practical  jokes  into  my  music  ;  if  I 
did,  I  shouldn't  be  the  poor  devil  I  am  !  I'm:very  hungry 
when  I  go  to  bed,  and  when  I  wake  up  in  the  morning  I 
have  Katzenjammer  (from  an  empty  stomach)  and  a  head- 
ache, and  a  heartache,  and  penitence  and  shame  and  re- 
morse ;  and  know  there  is  nothing  in  this  world  or  beyond 
it  worth  a  moment's  care  but  Love,  Love,  Love  !  Liebe, 
Liebe  !  The  good  love  that  knows  neither  concealment 
nor  shame  —  from  the  love  of  the  brave  man  for  the 
pure  maiden  whom  he  weds,  to  the  young  nun's  love  of 
the  Lord  !  and  all  the  other  good  loves  lie  between  these 
two,  and  are  inside  them,  or  come  out  of  them,  .  .  .  and 
that's  the  love  I  put  into  my  music.  Lideed,  my  music 
is  the  only  love  I  know,  since  I  am  not  beautiful  to  the 
eye,  and  can  only  care  for  tunes!  .  .  . 

''But  you,  Pardy,  are  handsome  and  gallant  and  gay, 
and  have  always  been  well  beloved  by  num  and  wonuin 
and  child,  and  always  will  be  ;  and  know  how  to  love  back 
again — even  a  dog !  however  bliiul  you  go,  you  will  al- 
ways have  that,  the  loving  heart — and  as  long  as  you  can 
hear  and  sing,  you  will  always  have  my  tunes  to  fall  back 
upon.  ..." 

"And  juiue!"  says  Chopiu.     "If  there's  one  thing 


230 


'■■  :> 


sweeter  th;iii  love,  it's  tlic  sadness  that  it  can't  last ;  she 
loved  me  once — and  now  she  loves  foid  le  tnonde!  and 
that's  a  little  sweet  melodic  sadness  of  mine  that  will 
never  fail  you,  as  lon<^  as  there's  a  piano  within  your 
reach,  and  a  friend  who  knows  how  to  i)lay  me  on  it  for 
you  to  hear.  You  shall  revel  in  my  sadness  till  you  for- 
get your  own.  Oh,  the  sorrow  of  my  sweet  pipings  ! 
Whatever  becomes  of  your  eyes,  keej)  your  two  ears  for 
my  sake;  and  for  your  sake  too!  You  don't  know  what 
exquisite  ears  you've  got.  You  are  like  me — you  and 
I  are  made  of  silk,  Jiarty — as  other  men  are  made  of 
sackcloth;  and  their  love,  of  ashes;  and  their  joys,  of 
dust ! 

"Even  the  good  priest  who  plays  me  to  you  so  glibly 
doesn't  understand  what  I  am  talking  about  half  so  well 
us  you  do,  who  can't  read  a  word  I  write  !  lie  had  to 
learn  my  language  note  by  note  from  the  best  music- 
master  in  Ik'ussels.  It's  your  mother  -  tongue  !  You 
learned  it  as  you  sucked  at  your  sweet  young  mother's 
breast,  my  poor  love-child  I  And  all  through  her,  your 
ears,  like  your  remaining  eye,  are  worth  a  hatful  of  the 
common  kind — and  some  day  it  will  be  the  same  with 
your  heart  and  brain.  ..." 

"Yes" — continues  Schumann — "but  you'll  have  to 
suffer  first  —  like  me,  who  will  have  to  kill  myself  very 
soon  ;  because  I  am  going  nnid — and  that's  worse  than 
any  blindness!  and  like  Beethoven  who  went  deaf,  poor 
demigod  !  and  like  all  the  rest  of  us  who've  been  singing 
to  you  to-night;  that's  why  our  songs  never  pall — be- 
cause we  are  acquainted  with  grief,  and  have  good  mem- 
ories, and  are  quite  sincere.  The  older  you  get,  the 
more  you  will  love  us  and  our  songs :  other  songs  may 
come  and  go  in  the  ear;  but  ours  go  ringing  in  the  heart 
forever !" 


2;ji 


111  some  such  fjiisliioii  did  tlie  great  musters  of  tune 
and  tone  discourse  to  Barty  tlirou.irli  Fatlier  Louis's 
well-trained  nnger-tii)s.  Tliey  always  discourse  to  you 
a  little  about  yourself,  these  great  masters,  always;  and 
always  in  a  manner  pleasing  to  your  self-love  !  The  lin- 
ger-tips  (whosesoever's  linger-tips  they  he)  have  only  to 
he  intelligent  and  well  trained,  and  play  just  what's  put 
before  tlu'in  in  a  true,  reverent  spirit.  Anything  be- 
yond may  he  unpardonable  impertinence,  both  to  the 
great  masters  and  yourself. 

^[usicians  will  tell  you  that  all  this  is  nonsense  from 
be<>innin«j-  to  eiul  :  vou  mustn't  believe  musi(;ians  a])out 
music,  nor  wine-merchants  about  wine— but  vice  versa. 

When  Father  Louis  g(»t  up  from  the  music-stool, 
the  Abbe  would   say  to  Barty,  in  Jiis   delightful,  pure 

French  : 

"  And  now,  mon  ami — just  for  mc,  you  know — a  little 

song  of  autrefois." 

*' All  right,  M.  1' Abbe— I  will  sing  you  the  *  Adelaide,' 
of  Beethoven  ...  if  Father  Louis  will  play  for  me." 

"  Oh,  non,  mon  ami,  do  not  throw  away  such  a  beauti- 
ful organ  as  yours  on  such  retdly  beautiful  music,  which 
doesn't  want  it;  it  would  be  sinful  waste;  it's  not  so 
much  the  tune  that  I  want  to  hear  as  the  fresh  young 
voice  ;  sing  me  something  Frencdi,  something  light, 
something  amiable  and  droll;  that  1  may  forget  the 
song,  and  only  remember  the  singer." 

''All  right,  M.  l'Al)l)e,"  and  Barty  sings  a  delightful 
little  song  by  Gustave  Kadaud,  called  "Petit  bonhomme 

vit  encore." 

And  the  good  Abbe  is  in  the  seventh  heaven,  and  quite 

forgets  to  forget  the  song. 

Ami  so,  cakes  and  wine,  and  good- night  — and  M. 
I'Abbe  goes  humming  all  the  way  home.  .  .  . 


233 

"lie,  qiioi !   pour  dos  peccadillcs 
Groiidir  ccs  paiivrcs  amours  ? 
Les  feiiunes  sont  si  gcntilles, 
Et  I'ou  ii'aime  pas  toujours  ! 
C'est  bonliomme 
Qu'on  me  nomme.  .  .  . 
]Ma  gaitc,  c'est  mon  tresor  ! 
El  bonliomme  vil  encor' — 
Et  bonliomme  vit  encor'  !" 


An  extraordiiijiry  susceptibility  to  musical  sound  was 
growing  in  Burty  since  liis  trouble  had  overtaken  liim, 
and  with  it  an  extraordinary  sensitiveness  to  the  troubles 
of  other  people,  their  partings  and  bereavements  and 
wants,  and  aches  and  pains,  even  tl  ".e  of  people  he 
didn't  know ;  and  especially  the  wo  '  children,  and 
dogs  and  cats  and  horses,  and  aged  folk — and  all  the 
live  things  that  have  to  be  driven  to  market  and  killed 
for  our  eating — or  shot  at  for  our  fun  I 

All  liis  old  loathing  of  sport  had  come  back,  and  he 
Avas  getting  his  old  dislike  of  meat  once  more,  and  to 
sickrn  at  the  sight  of  a  butcher's  shop ;  and  the  sight  of 
a  blind  man  stirred  him  to  the  depths  .  .  .  even  when 
he  learnt  how  happy  a  blind  man  can  be  ! 

These  unhappy  things  that  can't  be  helped  preoccupied 
him  as  if  he  had  been  twenty,  thirty,  fifty  years  older ; 
and  the  world  seemed  to  him  a  shocking  place,  a  gray, 
bleak,  melancholy  hell  where  there  '  as  nothing  but  sad- 
ness, and  badness,  and  madness. 

And  bit  by  bit,  but  very  soon,  all  his  old  trust  in  an 
all-merciful,  all-powerful  ruler  of  the  universe  fell  from 
him ;  he  shed  it  like  an  old  skin ;  it  sloughed  itself 
away  ;  and  with  it  all  his  old  conceit  of  himself  as  a 
very  fine  fellow,  taller,  handsomer,  cleverer  than  any- 
body else,  **bar  two  or  three"!    Such  darling  beliefs  are 


233 


the  best  stays  we  can  liuve  ;  tiiul  he  found  life  hard  to 
face  without  them. 

And  he  got  us  careful  of  his  aunt  Caroline,  and  as 
anxious  about  her  little  fads  and  fancies  and  ailments, 
us  if  he'd  been  an  old  woman  himself. 

Imagine  how  she  grew  to  dote  on  him! 

And  he  quite  lost  his  old  liability  to  sudden  freaks 
and  fits  of  noisy  fractiousness  about  trifles — when  he 
would  stamp  and  rave  and  curse  aiul  swear,  and  be  quite 
pacified  in  a  moment :  ''  Suupe-au-lalt/'  as  he  was  nick- 
named in  Troplong's  studio  ! 

Besides  his  seton  and  his  cuppings,  dry  and  wet,  and 
his  blisters  on  his  arms  and  back,  and  his  mustard 
poultices  on  his  feet  and  legs,  and  his  doses  of  mercury 
and  alteratives,  he  had  also  to  deplete  himself  of  blood 
three  times  a  week  by  a  dozen  or  twenty  leeches  behind 
his  left  ear  and  on  his  temple.  All  this  softens  and  re- 
laxes the  heart  towards  others,  as  a  good  tonic  will 
harden  it. 

So  that  he  looked  a  mere  shadow  of  his  former  self 
when  I  went  over  to  spend  my  Christmas  with  him. 

And  his  eye  was  getting  worse  instead  of  better ;  at 
night  he  couldn't  sleep  for  the  fireworks  it  let  olf  in  the 
dark.  By  day  the  trouble  was  even  worse,  as  it  so  in- 
terfered with  the  sight  of  the  other  eye— even  if  he 
wore  a  patch,  which  he  hated,  lie  never  knew  peace 
but  when  his  aunt  was  reading  to  him  in  the  dindy 
lighted  room,  and  he  forgot  himself  in  listening. 

Yet  he  was  as  lively  and  droll  as  ever,  with  a  wan  face 
as  eloquent  of  grief  as  any  face  I  ever  saw;  ho  had  it  in 
his  head  that  the  right  eye  would  go  the  same  way  as  the 
left.  He  could  no  longer  see  the  satellites  of  Jupiter 
with  it :  hardly  Jupiter  itself,  except  as  a  luminous  blur  j 


234 


,'<   I. 


indeed,  it  was  getting  <{uite  near-sighted,  and  full  of  spots 
and  s})ecks  and  little  movable  clouds — mnscfp  voUhndcs, 
as  I  believe  they  are  called  by  the  faculty,  lie  was 
always  ou  the  lookout  for  new  symptoms,  and  never  in 
vain  ;  and  his  burden  was  as  much  as  he  could  bear. 

lie  Avoiild  half  sincerely  long  for  death,  of  which  he 
yet  had  such  a  horror  that  he  wjis  often  tempted  to  kill 
himself  to  get  the  bother  of  it  well  over  at  once.  The 
idea  of  death  in  the  dark,  Injwever  remote — an  idea  that 
constantly  haunted  him  as  his  own  most  probable  end — 
so  appalled  him  that  it  would  stir  the  roots  of  his  hair  ! 

Lady  Caroline  conlided  to  me  her  terrible  anxiety, 
which  she  managed  to  hide  from  him.  She  herself  had 
been  to  see  ^I.  Noiret,  who  was  no  longer  so  conlident 
and  cocksure  about  recovery. 

1  went  to  see  him  too,  without  letting  Bartv  know.  I 
did  not  like  the  nuin — he  was  stealthy  in  look  and  man- 
ner, and  priestly  and  feline  and  sleek  :  but  he  seemed 
very  intelligent,  and  managed  to  persuade  me  that  no 
other  treatment  was  even  to  be  thought  of. 

I  i)i([uire<l  about  him  in  lirussels,  ;ind  found  his  rei)u- 
tation  was  of  the  highest.  What  could  I  do  ?  I  knew 
nothing  of  such  things  !  And  what  a  responsibility  for 
mo  to  volunteer  advice  ! 

I  could  see  that  my  deep  att'ection  for  Barty  was  a 
source  of  immense  comfort  to  Lady  Caroline,  for  whom 
1  conceived  a  great  and  warm  regard,  besides  being  very 
much  charmed  with  her. 

She  was  one  of  those  gentle,  genial,  kindly,  intelli- 
gent women  of  the  world,  absolutely  natural  and  sincere, 
in  whom  it  is  impossible  not  to  conlide  and  trust. 

When  I  left  otf  talking  about  Harty,  because  there  was 
really  nothing  more  to  say,  I  fell  into  talking  about  \i  y- 
self  :  it  was  irresistible — she  nuuU'  one  !     I  even  showed 


)ots 
les, 
vas 
in 

lio 

ill 

riie 


235 


her  Leah's  last  photograph,  and  tohl  lier  of  my  secret 
aspirations  ;  and  she  was  so  warmly  sympathetic  and 
said  such  l)eautii'nl  things  to  me  ahont  Leah's  face  and 
aspect  and  all  they  promised  of  good  that  1  have  never 
forgotten  them,  and  never  shall  —  they  showed  saich  a. 
prophetic  insight !  they  fanned  a  Hame  that  needed  no 
fanning,  good  heavens !  and  rang  in  my  ears  and 
my  heart  all  the  way  to  Barge  Yard,  Bu'kleishiiry — 
A\hile  my  eyes  were  full  of  liarty's  figure  as  he  again 
watched  me  depart  hy  the  Huron  (hi/  from  the  Quai  de 
la  Place  Verte  in  Antwerp;  a  sight  that  wrung  me, 
when  T  remembered  what  a  magnificent  figure  of  a  youth 
he  looked  as  he  left  the  wharf  at  London  Bridge  on  the 
Boulogne  steamer,  hardly  more  than  two  short  years  ago. 

When  I  got  hack  to  London,  after  spending  my 
Christmas  holiday  with  Barty,  I  found  the  beginning 
of  a  little  trouble  of  my  own. 

My  father  was  abroad  ;  my  niotiier  and  sister  were 
staying  with  some  friends  in  Chiselhurst,  and  after  hav- 
ing settled  all  I'usiness  matters  in  ]'»arge  Yard  1  called 
at  t]io  (libsons',  in  Tavistock  S(|iiaij,  just  after  dusk. 
Mrs.  (libsoii  and  Leah  were  at  home,  and  three  or  four 
young  men  were  there,  also  calling.  There  had  been  a 
party  on  (Miristmas-eve. 

I'm  afraid  I  did  not  lliink  nuuOi,  as  a  rule,  of  the 
young  men  I  met  iit  the  (iibsons'.  'IMiey  were  mostly  in 
business,  like  myself;  and  why  1  should  hiivc  I'clt  at  all 
supercilious  1  can"'^^  ([uitc  see!  But  I  did.  Was  it  be- 
cause I  was  very  tall,  and  dressed  by  Barty 's  tailor,  in 
Jermyn  fStreet  ?  Was  it  because  I  knew  I'^rciicJi  ?  Was 
it  bncauso  1  was  a  friend  of  Harty  the  (Juardsmun,  who 
had  never  been  s;ii)ercilious  towards  anylxxly  in  his  life? 
Or  was  it  those  maternally  ancestral  L'ish  IJlakes  of  J)er- 
rydown  stirring  within  me? 


236 


The  simplest  excuse  I  can  miike  for  myself  is  that  I 
was  a  young  snob,  and  couldn't  help  it.  ^Eany  fellows 
are  at  that  age.  Some  grow  out  of  it,  and  some  don't. 
And  the  Gibsons  were  by  way  of  spoiling  me,  because  I 
was  Leah's  bosom  friend's  brother,  and  I  gave  myself 
airs  in  consequence. 

As  J  sat  perfectly  content,  telling  Leah  all  about  poor 
Jiarty,  another  visitor  was  announced — a  Mr.  Scatcherd, 
whom  I  didn't  know;  but  I  saw  at  a  glance  that  it 
would  not  do  to  be  suj)er(;ilious  with  ^[r.  Scatcherd. 
]Ie  was  quite  as  tall  as  I,  for  one  thing,  if  not  taller. 
His  tailor  ndght  have  been  Poole  himself;  and  he  was 
extremely  good-looking,  and  had  all  the  appearance  and 
manners  of  a  man  of  the  world,  lla  might  have  been  a 
({ uardsnuin.    lie  was  not  that,  it  seemed — only  a  barrister. 

He  had  been  at  Eton,  had  taken  his  degree  at  Cam- 
bridge, and  ignored  me  just  as  frankly  as  I  ignored 
Tom,  Dick,  and  Harry  —  whoever  they  were  ;  and  I 
didn't  like  i^  at  all.  He  ignored  everybody  but  Leah 
and  her  mamnui :  her  papa  was  not  tiiere.  It  turned 
out  tiiat  he  was  the  only  son  of  the  great  wholesale  fur- 
rier in  Ludgate  Hill,  tlu;  largest  bouse  of  the  kind  in 
the  world,  with  a  braiu^h  in  Xew  York  and  another  in 
Que.»oc  or  Montreal.  He  had  been  called  to  the  bar  to 
please  a  wliim  ol'  his  father's. 

He  had  been  at  the  (Jibson  party  on  Ohristmas-evc, 
and  had  paid  Leah  much  attention  tiiere  ;  and  came  to 
tell  tliem  that  his  mother  hoped  to  call  on  Mrs.  (Jibson 
on  the  following  day.  I  was  savagely  glad  that  he  did 
not  succeed  in  monopolizing  Leah  ;  not  oven  I  could  do 
that.  She  was  kind  to  us  all  round,  and  never  made 
any  dill'erences  in  her  own  house. 

Mr.  Scatcherd  soon  took  his  departure,  and  it  was 
then  that  1  heard  uU  about  him. 


b  it 


I  or. 

iVilS 


iih 


111 
ill 
to 


to 
oil 
lid 


(to 


ENTEH  MU.  SCATCIIEllD 


288 


There  was  no  doubt  tbut  Mr.  and  INFrs.  Gibson  were 
immensely  flattered  by  tlie  civilities  of  this  very  impor- 
tant and  somewhat  consequential  young  man,  and  those 
of  his  mother,  which  were  to  follow;  for  within  a  week 
the  Gibsons  and  Leah  dined  with  j\[r.  and  Mrs.  Scatch- 
erd  in  Portlaiul  Place. 

On  this  occasion  Mr.  Gibson  was,  as  usual,  very  funny, 
it  seems.  Whether  his  fun  was  appreciated  I  doubt,  for 
he  confided  to  me  that  Mr.  Scatcherd,  senior,  was  a 
pompous  and  stuck-up  old  ass.  People  have  such  dif- 
ferent notions  of  what  is  funny.  Nobody  roared  at  Mr. 
Gibson's  funniments  more  than  I  did  ;  but  he  was  Leah's 
papa. 

"Let  liim  joke  his  bellyful; 
I'll  bear  it  all  for  Sally  !" 


I 


Young  Scatcherd  was  fond  of  his  joke  too — a  kind  of 
supersubtly  satirical  (*ambridgy  banter  thiit  was  not  to 
my  taste  at  all ;  for  I  am  no  C'antab,  and  the  wit  of  the 
London  Stock  Exchange  is  subtle  enough  for  me.  His 
father  did  not  joke.  Lideed  he  was  full  of  useful  infor- 
mation, and  only  too  fond  of  imparting  it,  and  he  al- 
ways nuide  use  of  the  choicest  language  in  doing  so  ; 
ami  Mrs.  Scatcherd  was  immensely  genteel. 

Young  Scat(dierd  became  the  plague  of  my  11^*0.  The 
worst  of  it  is  that  he  grew  (juite  civil — seemed  to  take  a 
liking,  llis  hobby  was  to  become  a  good  French  scholar, 
and  he  practised  his  Prencli  —  Avhich  was  uncommonly 
good  of  its  English  kind — on  me.  And  I  am  bound  to 
say  that  his  manners  were  so  agreeable  (wben  he  wasn't 
joking),  and  he  was  such  a  thoroughly  good  fellow,  that 
it  was  impossible  to  snub  him  ;  besides,  he  wouldn't  have 
cared  if  1  had. 

Once  or  twice  he  actually  asked  me  to  dine  with  him 


239 


jit  liis  clnb,  iiiid  I  actnully  did;  Jiiid  actually  lie  with  me, 
ut  mine  I  And  we  spoke  French  all  through  dinner,  and 
1  taught  him  a  lot  of  French  school-l)oy  slang,  with  which 
he  was  delighted.  Then  he  came  to  see  me  in  Barire 
Yard,  and  I  even  introduced  him  to  my  mother  and  sis- 
ter, who  couldn't  help  being  charmed  with  him.  He 
was  fond  of  the  best  music  only  (he  had  no  ear  whatever, 
and  didn't  know  a  note),  aiul  only  cared  for  old  pictures 
— the  National  (lallery,  and  all  that ;  and  read  no  novels 
but  French  —  Balzac  and  Tleorge  Sand — and  that  only 
for  i^ractice  ;  for  he  vv^as  a  singularly  pure  young  man, 
the  purest  in  all  Cambridge,  and  in  those  days  I  thought 
him  a  quite  unforgivjible  prig. 

So  Scatcherd  was  in  my  thoughts  all  day  and  in  my 
dreams  all  night — a  kind  of  incubus  ;  and  my  mother 
made  herself  very  uidiappy  about  him,  on  Leah's  account 
and  mine  ;  except  that  now  and  then  she  would  fancy  it 
was  Ida  he  Avas  thinking  of.  And  that  would  have 
pleased  my  mother  very  much     and  me  too  ! 

His  mother  called  on  mine,  who  returned  the  call — 
but  there  was  no  invitation  for  us  to  dine  in  Portland 
Place. 

Nothing  of  all  this  interrupted  for  a  moment  the  bos- 
om-frieiulship  between  my  sister  and  Leah;  nothing  ever 
altered  the  geiual  sweetness  of  Leah's  niiinners  to  me,  nor 
indeed  the  cordiality  of  her  ])arents  :  Mr.  (Jibson  could 
not  get  on  without  that  big  gutl'aw  of  mine,  id  whati^ver 
ho  looked  or  said  or  did  ;  lu)  Scatcherd  could  laugh  iis 
loudly  and  as  readily  as  I  I  P»ut  I  was  very  wrettdied  in- 
deed, ami  poured  out  my  woes  to  liarty  in  long  letters  of 
poetical  Hliize,  and  he  would  bid  me  liojx!  and  be  of  good 
cheer  in  bis  droll  way  ;  ami  a  Blaze  letter  from  him 
would  heartfMi  me  u|)  wonderfidly — till  1  was  told  of 
Leah's  going  to  the  theatre  with  Mrs.  Scatcdicril  and  her 


240 


son,  or  saw  his  liorses  and  groom  parading  up  and  down 
Tavistock  Square  while  he  was  at  the  Gibsons',  or  heard 
of  his  dining  there  without  Ida  or  mo  ! 

Then  one  fine  day  in  April  (the  first,  I  verily  believe) 
young  Seatcherd  proposed  to  Leah — and  was  refused — 
unconditionally  refused — to  the  deo})  distress  and  disnuiy 
of  her  father  and  mother,  who  had  thoroughly  set  their 
hearts  on  this  match ;  and  no  wonder  ! 

But  Leah  was  an  obstiiuite  young  woman,  it  seemb.  and 
thoroughly  knew  her  own  mind,  though  she  was  so  young 
— not  seventeen. 

Was  I  a  happy  man  ?  Ah,  wasn't  1 1  I  was  sent  to 
Bordeaux  by  my  father  that  very  week  o]i  business — and 
promised  myself  I  would  soon  be  quite  as  good  a  catch  or 
match  as  Scatcherd  himself.  I  found  Bordeaux  the  sun- 
niest, sweetei't  town  J.  had  ever  been  in — and  the  Borde- 
lais  the  jolliest  men  on  earth  ;  and  as  for  the  beautiful 
Bordelaises — ma  foi  !  thev  miirht  have  been  monkevs,  for 
me  !  There  was  but  one  woman  among  women — one  lily 
among  flowers — everything  else  was  a  weed  ! 

Poor  Scatcherd  !  Avhen  I  met  him,  a  few  davs  later,  he 
must  have  been  struck  by  the  sudden  warniLh  of  my 
friendship — the  quick  idiomatic  cordiality  of  my  J^'rench 
to  him.  This  mutual  friendship  of  ours  lasted  till  his 
death  in  '88.     And  so  did  our  mutual  French  ! 

Except  Barty,  T  never  loved  a  man  better ;  two  years 
after  his  refusal  by  Leah  he  married  my  sisler — a  happy 
marriage,  though  a  childless  one  ;  ami  ext'e})t  myself, 
Barty  never  had  a  more  devoted  frieuil.  And  now  to 
Barty  I  will  return. 


part  Sistb 

From  tlie  east,  to  westeni  Ind, 

No  jewel  is  like  Hosiilind. 

Her  worth,  being  mounted  oji  the  ^^ind, 

Throiii!;Ii  all  tlie  world  bears  Rosalind. 

All  the  pietures,  fairest  lin'd, 

Are  but  blaek  to  Rosalind. 

Let  no  fair  be  kept  in  mind, 

But  the  fair  of  Rosalind. 


"Thus  Rosalind  of  many  parts 

Hy  heavenly  synod  was  devis'd. 
Of  many  faecs,  eyes,  and  hearts. 
To  have  the  touehes  dearest  priz'd." 

— An  You  Like  It. 


I- 


For  many  montlis  Barty  and  liis  aunt  lived  their  usual 
life  in  the  Rue  ties  Ursulines  Blanches. 

He  always  looked  hack  on  those  dreary  months  as  on 
a  long  nightmare.  Spring,  summer,  autumn,  and  an- 
other Christmas  ! 

His  eye  got  worse  and  worse,  and  so  interfered  witli 
the  sight  of  the  otiicr  tliat  he  had  no  pea(!e  till  it  was 
darkened  wholly.  He  tried  another  doctor — MoiiHieur 
(Joyers,  professor  at  the  liheral  university  of  flhent — 
who  consulted  with  Di-.  Noiret  ahout  him  «ne  day 
in  Brussels,  and  afterwards  tokl  him  tiiat  Noiret  of 
Louvain,  whom  he  descrihed  as  a  miserahle  Jesuit,  was 
blinding  him,  and  that  he,  this  Goyers  of  Ghent,  would 
cure  him  in  six  weeks. 

10 


Wi 


*^Mcttez-voiis  au  rt'ginie  des  viandes  saignantes  !"  had 
said  Noiret  ;  and  Barty  had  put  himself  on  a  diet  of 
underdone  beef  and  mutton. 

'' Mettez  -  vous  au  hiit  !'^  said  (I overs — so  he  metted 
himself  at  the  milk,  as  he  ealled  it — and  put  hiinselt*  in 
(jioyers's  hands;  and  in  six  weeks  gotsomufdi  worse  that 
he  went  haek  to  Noiret  and  the  legimen  of  the  Ijlueding 
meats,  which  he  loathed. 

Then,  in  his  long  and  wretched  (icsrei(n'ciHC}it,]m  mel- 
ancholia, he  drifted  into  an  indiscreet  llirtation  with 
a  beautiful  lady — he  (as  hiul  h;i})pened  before)  being  more 
the  pursued  than  tlie  pursuer.  And  so  ardent  was  the 
pursuit  that  one  line  morning  the  beautiful  lady  found 
herself  gravely  compromised — and  tiierc  was  a  bother  and 

a  row. 

"Amour,  amour,  quand  tu  nous  liens. 

On  pent  bleu  <lii'e  'Adieu  Pr 'dence !' " 

All  this  gave  Lady  Caroline  groat  distress,  and  ended 
most  unhapj)ily — in  a  duel  with  the  Indy's  hus1)and,  who 
Avas  a  Colonel  of  Artillery,  and  meant  business  ! 

They  fought  with  swords  in  a  little  wood  near  Laeken. 
Harty,  who  could  have  run  his  fat  antagonist  through  a 
dozen  times  during  the  five  minutes  they  fought,  allowed 
himself  to  be  badly  wounded  in  the  side,  just  above  the 
hip,  and  spent  a  month  in  bed.  He  had  hoped  to  man- 
age for  himself  a  slighter  wound,  and  catch  his  adver- 
sary's point  on  his  elbow. 

Afterwards,  Lady  Caroline,  who  had  so  disapproved 
of  the  llirtation,  did  not,  strange  to  say,  so  disajiprovc  of 
this  bloody  encounter,  and  tlioroughly  approved  of  the 
way  Barty  had  let  himself  be  pinked  !  and  nursed  him 
devotedly;  no  mother  could  have  nursed  him  I)etter — 
no  sister — no  wife  I  not  even  the  wife  of  that  Belgian 
Colonel  of  Artillery  ! 


CD 


> 
> 


Ui 


"II  s*est  conduit  en  liomme  de  coour !"  said  the  good 
Abbe. 

*'  II  s'est  conduit  en  bon  gentilhomme  !"  said  the 
aristocratic  Father  Louis,  of  the  princely  house  of  Arem- 
berg. 

On  the  other  hand,  young  de  Oleves  the  dragoon,  and 
Monsieur  Jean  the  Viscount,  who  had  served  as  liarty's 
seconds  (I  was  in  America),  were  very  angry  with  liim 
for  giving  himself  away  in  this  ''  idiotically  quixotic 
manner." 

Besides  which,  Colonel  Lecornu  was  a  notorious  bully, 
it  seems  ;  and  a  fool  into  the  bargain ;  and  belonged  to  a 
branch  of  the  service  they  detested. 

The  only  other  thing  worth  mentioning  is  that  Barty 
and  Father  Louis  became  great  friends — almost  insepa- 
rable during  such  hours  as  the  Dominican  could  spare 
from  the  duties  of  his  professorate. 

It  speaks  volumes  for  all  that  was  good  in  each  of 
them  that  this  should  have  been  so,  since  they  were  wide 
apart  as  the  poles  in  questions  of  immense  moment: 
questions  on  which  I  will  not  enlarge,  strongly  as  I  feel 
about  them  myself — for  this  is  not  a  novel,  but  a  biog- 
raphy, and  therefore  no  fit  place  for  the  airing  of  one's 
own  opinion  on  matters  so  grave  and  important. 

When  they  parted  they  constantly  wrote  to  each  other 
— an  intimate  correspondence  that  was  only  ended  by 
the  Father's  death. 

Barty  also  made  one  or  two  other  friends  in  Malines, 
and  was  often  in  Antwerp  and  Brussels,  but  seldom  for 
more  than  a  few  hours,  as  he  did  not  like  to  leave  his 
aunt  alone. 

One  day  came,  in  April,  on  which  she  had  to  leave 
him. 

A  message  arrived  that  her  father,  the  old  Marquis 


80  NEAR   ANP   YET  80  FAR 


246 


(Barty's  grandfatlier),  was  at  the  point  of  death.  He  was 
ninety-six.  He  had  expressed  a  wisli  to  see  lier  once 
more,  although  he  liad  king  been  chiklish. 

So  Barty  saw  her  off,  with  her  maid,  by  tiie  Baron 
O.sf/.  81ie  promised  to  be  back  as  soon  as  all  was  over. 
Even  this  short  parting  was  a  pain — they  had  grown  so 
indispensable  to  each  other. 

Tescheles  was  away  from  Antwerp,  and  the  discon- 
solate I^arty  went  back  to  Afalines  and  dined  by  himself; 
and  little  Frau  waited  on  him  Avith  extra  care. 

It  turned  out  that  her  mother  had  cooked  for  him  a 
special  dish  of  consolation — sausage-meat  stewed  inside 
a  red  cabbage,  with  apples  and  cloves,  till  it  all  gets 
mixed  up.  It  is  a  dish  not  to  be  beaten  when  you  are 
young  and  Flemish  and  hungry  and  hap])y  and  Avell  (even 
then  you  mustn^t  take  more  than  one  helping).  When 
you  are  not  all  this  it  is  good  to  Avash  it  down  with  half 
a  bottle  of  the  best  Burgundy — and  this  Barty  did  (from 
Vougeot-Conti  and  Co.). 

Then  he  \vent  out  and  Avandered  about  in  the  dark 
and  lost  himself  in  a  dreamy  daadalus  of  little  streets 
and  bridges  and  canals  and  ditches.  A  huge  comet 
(Encke's,  I  believe)  Avas  flaring  all  over  the  sky. 

He  suddenly  came  across  the  lighted  Avindow  of  a  small 
estaminet,  and  Avent  in. 

It  Avas  a  little  beer-shop  of  the  lunnblest  kind — and 
just  started.  At  a  little  deal  table,  brand-new,  a  mid- 
dle-aged burgher  of  prosperous  appearance  Avas  sitting 
next  to  the  barmaid,  who  had  deserted  her  post  at  the 
bar — and  to  Avhom  he  seemed  someAvhat  attentive  ;  for 
their  chairs  Avere  close  together,  and  their  arms  round 
each  other's  waists,  and  they  drank  out  of  the  same 
glass. 

There  Avas  no  one  else  in  the  room,  and  Barty  was 


247 


about  to  iiiuke  liimself  scuivi',  but  tboy  pivssed  him  to 
coiiiu  in  ;  so  lie  sat  at  auotlier  little  ucvv  deal  table  on  a 
little  iiew  straw-bottonietl  chair,  and  she  broii_i;ht  him  a 
glass  of  brer.  8he  was  a  very  handsome  ^ij;irl,  with  a  tall, 
j^raeeftil  liinire  an<l  S])ani.-h  eyes.  He  lit  a  ei,i>-ar,  and 
she  went  back  to  her  beau  quite  sin)[)ly — and  they  all 
three  i'ell  into  conversation  about  an  operetta  by  Victor 
Masse,  wliicli  had  l)een  performed  in  Valines  the  pre- 
vious niglit,  called  /yW  X(jrt's  dp,  Jmnnetle. 

The  barmaid  and  her  monsieur  were  tryiiu^  to  remem- 
ber  the  beautiful  air  Jeanuettc  sinj^s  as  she  mends  her 


angry  husband's  breeches  : 


"Coins,  nion  {ligiiillc,  dans  la  liiiiio  ! 
Ne  te  casse  pas  dans  ma  main  ; 
Avec  de  bons  baisers  domain 
Jcau  nous  paira  ilii  iiotru  peine  !" 


80  IJartv  sanu"  it  to  them;  and  so  beautifullv  that  they 
were  all  but  melted  to  tears — especially  the  nu^nsieur, 
who  was  evidently  very  sentimental  and  very  much  in 
love.  Besides,  there  was  that  ineffable  charm  of  the  pure 
French  intonation,  so  caressing  to  the  Belgian  ear,  so 
dear  to  the  Belgian  soul,  so  unattainable  by  Flemish 
lips.  It  was  one  of  liarty's  most  successful  ditties — 
and  if  I  were  a  middle-aged  burgher  of  Mechelcn,  I 
shouldn't  much  like  to  have  a  young  French  Barty 
singing  "  Oours,  mon  aiguille''  to  the  girl  of  my 
heart. 

Then,  at  their  desire,  ho  went  on  singing  things  till 
it  was  time  to  leave,  and  he  found  he  had  spent  quite 
a  happy  evening:  nothing  gave  him  greater  pleasure 
than  singing  to  people  who  liked  it — ami  he  went  sing- 
ing on  his  way  home,  dreamily  staring  at  the  rare  gas- 
lamps  and  the  huge  comet,  and  thinking  of  his  old  grand- 


248 


father  who  lay  dying  or  dead  :  *'Cours,  moii  aiguille,  it 
is  good  to  live — it  is  good  to  die  !" 

Suddenly  he  discovered  that  when  he  looked  at  one 
lamp,  another  lamp  close  to  it  on  the  right  was  com- 
pletely eclipsed—and  he  soon  found  that  a  portion  of  his 
right  eye,  not  far  from  the  centre,  was  totally  sightless. 

The  shock  was  so  great  that  he  had  to  lean  against 
a  buttress  of  St.  Rombault  for  support. 

When  he  got  home  he  tested  the  sight  of  his  eye  Avith 
a  two-franc  piece  on  the  green  table-cloth,  and  found 
tliere  was  no  mistake — a  portion  of  his  remaining  eye 
was  stone-blind. 

lie  spent  a  miserable  night,  and  went  next  day  to 
Louvain,  to  see  the  oculist. 

M.  Noiret  heard  his  story,  arranged  the  dark  room 
and  the  lamp,  dilated  the  right  pupil  with  atropine,  and 
made  :i  minute  examination  with  the  ophthalmoscope. 

Then  he  became  very  thoughtful,  and  led  the  way  to 
his  lil)rary  and  begged  ]5arty  to  sit  down  ;  and  began  to 
talk  to  him  very  seriously  indeed,  like  a  father — patting 
the  while  a  small  Italian  greyhound  that  lay  and  shiv- 
ered and  whined  in  a  little  round  cot  by  the  lire. 

M.  Noiret  began  by  inquiring  into  his  circumstances, 
whicli  were  not  flourishing,  as  we  know — and  JJarty  made 
no  secret  of  them  ;  tiien  he  asked  him  if  he  were  fond  of 
music, and  was  pleased  to  hear  that  he  was,  since  it  is  such 
an  innr.ense  resource  ;  then  he  asked  him  if  he  belonged 
to  the  Koman  Catholic  faith,  ami  again  was  pleased. 

**For" — said  he — **you  will  need  all  your  courage 
and  all  your  religion  to  hear  and  bear  what  it  is  my 
misfortune  to  have  to  tell  you.  I  hope  you  will  have 
more  fortitude  than  another  young  patient  of  mine  (also 
an  artist)  to  whom  I  was  obliged  to  make  a  similar  com- 
muuicatiou.     He  blew  out  his  brains  on  my  door-step  1" 


249 


**  I  promise  you  I  will  not  do  that.  I  suppose  I  iini 
going  blind  ?" 

'^  Helas  !  mon  jeune  ami !  I  grieve  to  say  that  the 
fatal  disease,  congestion  and  detachment  of  the  retina, 
Avhicli  has  so  obstinately  and  irrevocably  destroyed  your 
left  eye,  has  begun  its  terrible  work  on  the  right.  Wo 
will  figlit  for  every  inch  of  the  way.  lint  I  fear  J 
must  not  give  you  any  hope,  after  the  careful  exami- 
nation I  have  just  made.  It  is  my  duty  to  be  frank  with 
you." 

Then  he  p  d  much  about  the  will  of  God,  and  where 
true  comfort  was  to  be  found,  at  tiie  foot  of  the  Uross ; 
in  fact,  he  said  all  he  ought  to  have  said  according  to 
his  lights,  as  he  fondled  his  little  greyhound — aiul  finally 
took  Barty  to  the  door,  vhich  he  opened  for  him.  nu)st 
politely  bowing  with  his  black  velvet  skull-cap;  and 
pocketed  his  full  fee  (ten  francs)  with  his  usual  grace  of 
cureless  indifference,  and  gently  shut  the  door  on  him. 
There  was  nothing  else  to  do. 

Barty  stood  there  for  some  time,  quite  dazed  •  partly 
because  his  pupil  was  so  dilated  he  couUl  hardly  see — 
partly  (he  thinks)  because  he  in  souu^  way  bccauu*  un- 
conscious;  although  when  he  woke  from  this  little 
seeming  trance,  which  may  have  lasted  for  more  than  a 
minute,  he  fouiul  himself  still  standing  upright  on  his 
legs.  What  woke  him  was  the  sudden,  conscioHsut'.ss  of 
the  north,  which  ho  hadn't  felt  for  numy  years  ;  mid  this 
gave  him  extraordimiry  confidence  in  hiniself,  and  sucli 
a  wholesome  sense  of  |)ower  and  courage  that  he  (juickly 
recovered  his  wits;  and  when  the  glad  surprise  of  tiiis 
had  worn  itself  awav  he  was  aljjc  to  think  aiul  realize!  the 
terrible  thing  that  had  happened.  II(!  was  ahnost  pleased 
that  his  aunt  Caroline  was  away.  lie  felt  he  could  not 
havu  faced  her  with  such  news  —  it  was  a  thing  easier 


250 


to  write  and  prepare  her  for  than  to  tell   by  word   of 
month. 

He  walked  about  Lonvaiir  for  several  hours,  to  tire 
himself.  'J'lien  he  went  to  l^russeis  and  dined.  ;iiid 
a<;'ain  walked  al)out  tiie  Ian4)-Iit  sti'eeLs  and  ii})  and  down 
the  station,  and  finally  went  back  to  ^laliiies  by  a  late 
train — very  nervous— expe('tin<^  that  the  letiiia  of  his 
rip;ht  eye  would  su(bleuly  go  i)o[) — yet  buiiiU'inu^  himsijlf 
all  the  wliih'  in  his  renewed  ol<l  coinroilabki  feeling  of 
companionshij)  witb.  the  north  pok",  tiiat  iiiath'  liini  feel 
like  a  boy  again  ;  that  inexplicable  sensation  so  inti- 
mately associat(,'d  with  all  the  best  reminiscences  of  his 
innocent  and  happy  childhood. 

He  had  been  talking  to  himself  like  a  father  all  day, 
though  not  in  the  same  strain  as  M.  Noiret ;  and  had 
almost  arrived  at  fi'aming  the  ]H'ogi'amme  of  a  [)ossiblG 
existence — singing  at  cafes  with  his  guitar — singing  tiny- 
wherc  :  he  felt  sure  of  a  living  for  himself,  and  for  the 
little  boy  who  wouM  have  to  lead  him  about — if  the 
worst  canu!  to  the  worst. 

!'"  but  th(^  feeling  of  self-orientation  which  was  so 
necessary  to  him  couhl  (Uily  be  depended  ui)on,  he  felt 
that  in  time  he  would  h;ive  pluck  enough  to  bear  any- 
thing, indeed,  total  eclipse  was  less  appalling,  in  its 
Duality,  than  that  miserable  swoi'd  of  Damocles  which 
ha<l  been  hanging  over  him  for  nH)nths — I'obbinghim  of 
his  maidiood — poisoning  all  the  springs  of  life. 

Why  not  nuike  life-long  endurance  of  evil  a  stiuly,  a 
hobby,  and  a  pi'ide  ;  and  be  patieid,  as  bron/e  or  marble, 
and  evei'  wear  an  invincible  smile  at  griid',  even  when  in 
darkne:     and  alone  ?     Why  mtl.  indeed  ! 

And  he  set  himself  then  ami  theri>  to  smile  invincibly, 
meaning  to  keep  o\\  .-tmiling  for  llfty  years  at  U^ast — tiio 
blind  live  long. 


n 


S 


252 


So  he  chatted  to  himself,  saying  Sursum  cor  !  sursum 
corda!  all  the  way  home  ;  and.  walking  down  the  Grand 
Brul,  he  had  a  little  adventure  which  absolutely  gave 
him  a  hearty  guffaw  and  sent  him  almost  laughing  to 
bed. 

There  was  a  noisy  squabble  between  some  soldiers  and 
civilia..s  on  the  oi)posite  side  oi  the  way,  and  a  group  of 
men  in  blouses  were  looking  on.  Barty  stood  leaning 
against  a  lamp-post,  and  looked  on  too. 

Suddenlv  a  small  soldier  rushed  at  the  blouses,  bran- 
dishing  his  short  straight  sword  (or  coupe-choux,  as  it  is 
called  in  civilian  slang),  and  saying  : 

'^  ^a  no  vous  regarde  pas,  savez-vous  !  allez-vous  en 
bien  vite,  ou  je  vous  ..." 

The  blouses  fled  like  slieeji. 

Then  as  he  caught  sight  of  Barty  he  reached  at  him. 

*'9'^  ^^^'  '^'^'"^  regarde  pas,  savez-vous  !  .   .  .  " 

(It  doesn't  concern  you.) 

"  Nor  — c'est  moi  qui  regarde,  savez-vous  !"  said  Barty. 

"  Qu'est-ce  que  vous  regtirdez  ?" 

"Je  regarde  la  lune  et  les  etoiles.  Je  regarde  la 
comete  I" 

*'  Voulez-vous  bien  vous  en  aller  bien  vite  ?" 

**  line  autre  fois  !"  says  Barty. 

"Allez-vous  en,  je  vous  dis  !" 

"  Aprcs-(ltu)i;iin  !" 

"  Vous .  .  .  ne .  .  .  voulez .  .  .  pas  .  .  .  vous .  .  .  en  .  .  . 
aller  ?"  says  the  soldier,  on  tiptoe,  his  chest  iigainst 
Barty 's  stomach,  his  nose  ahnost  up  to  Barty 's  chin, 
glaring  up  like  a  fiend  and  poising  his  coupv-chuux  for  a 
death-stroke. 

"  AoM,  sacre  petit  pousso-cailloux  du  diablo  !"  roars 
Barty. 

**£h  bien,  restez  oil  vous  Otes!"  and  the  little  n'au 


263 


plunged  back  into  the  fray  on  the  opposite  side — and  no 
blood  was  shed  after  all. 

Barty  dreamt  of  this  adventure,  and  woke  up  laughing 
at  it  in  the  small  hours  of  that  night.  Then,  suddenly, 
in  the  dark,  he  remembered  the  horror  of  what  had  liap- 
pened.  It  overwhelmed  him.  He  realized,  as  in  a  sud- 
den illuminating  flash,  wluit  life  meant  for  him  hence- 
forward— life  that  might  last  for  so  many  years. 

Vitality  is  at  its  lowest  ebb  at  that  time  of  night ; 
though  the  brain  is  quick  to  perceive,  and  so  clear  that 
its  logic  seems  inexorable. 

It  was  hell.  It  was  not  to  V)e  borne  a  moment  longer. 
It  must  be  put  an  end  to  at  once.  He  tried  to  feel 
the  north,  but  could  not.  He  would  kill  himself  then 
and  there,  while  his  aunt  was  away ;  so  tluit  the  hor- 
ror of  the  sight  of  him,  after,  should  at  least  be  spared 
her. 

He  Jumped  out  of  bed  and  struck  a  light.  Thank 
Heaven,  he  wasn't  blind  yet,  though  he  saw  all  the 
bogies,  as  he  called  them,  that  had  made  his  life  a  bur- 
den to  him  for  the  last  two  years  —  the  retina  floating 
loose  about  his  left  eye,  tumbling  and  deforming  every 
lighted  thing  it  reflected — and  also  the  new  dai-k  spot  in 
his  right. 

He  partially  dressed,  and  stole  up-stairs  to  old  Torfs's 
photographic  studio.  He  knew  where  he  could  And  a 
bottle  full  of  cyanide  of  potassium,  used  for  reiiioving 
finger-stains  left  by  silver  nitrate  ;  tliere  was  enongli  of 
ii  to  poison  a  whole  regiment.  That  was  better  than 
taking  a  header  oif  tlie  roof.  He  seized  a  handful  of  the 
stuff,  and  ca>ne  down  and  put  it  into  a  tumbler  by  his 
bedside  and  i)oured  some  water  over  it. 

Then  he  got  his  writing-case  and  a  pen  and  ink,  and 
jumped  into  bed;  and  there  he  wrote  four  letters:  one 


254 


.j«|| 

'^B 


to  Lady  Curoliiie,  one  to  Fiitlier  Louis,  one  to  Lord 
Archibald,  and  one  to  me  in  Blaze. 

The  cyanide  was  slow  in  melting.  He  crushed  it  an- 
grily in  the  glass  with  liis  pe?iholder — and  the  scent  of 
bitter-almonds  filled  the  room.  Just  then  the  sense  of 
the  north  came  back  to  him  in  full ;  but  it  only  strength- 
ened his  resolve  and  made  him  all  the  calmer. 

He  lay  staring  at  the  tumbler,  watching  little  bubbles, 
revelling  in  what  remained  of  his  ex([uisite  faculty  of 
minute  sight — with  a  feeling  of  great  peace  ;  and  thought 
prayerfully  ;  lost  himself  in  a  kind  of  forndess  prayer 
without  words — lost  himself  completely.  It  was  as  if  the 
wished-for  dissolution  were  coming  of  its  own  accord  ; 
Nirvana  —  an  ecstasy  of  conscious  annihilation  —  the 
blessed  end,  the  end  of  all  !  as  though  he  were  passing 


".  .  .  .  du  sommc'il  au  songe — 
Du  sonm;  h  la  mort." 


It  was  not  so. 


lie  was  aroused  by  a  knock  at  the  door,  which  was 
locked.     It  was  broad  daylight. 

*'  U  est  dix  heures,  savez-vous  ?"  said  little  Fran  out- 
side— ^' voulez-vous  votro  cafe  dans  votre  chambre  ?" 

"0  Christ!"  said  Barty — ^and  jumped  out  of  bed. 
"  It's  all  got  to  be  done  now !" 

But  something  very  strange  had  hap})ened. 

The  tumbler  was  still  there,  but  the  cyanide  had  dis- 
appeared ;  so  had  the  four  letters  he  bad  written.  His 
p(Ui  and  ink  were  on  tlie  table,  and  on  his  open  writing- 
case  lay  a  letter  in  Blnze — in  his  own  handwriting.  The 
north  was  strong  in  him.  lie  called  out  to  Finche 
Tori's  to  leave  his  coffee  in  the  drawing-room,  and  read 
his  blaze  letter — and  this  is  what  he  read  : 


255 


'^  My  dear  Barty, — Don't  ha  in  the  least  alarmed 
on  reading  this  hasty  scrawl,  after  waking  from  the  sleep 
you  meant  to  sleep  forever.  There  is  no  sleep  without  a 
live  body  to  sleep  in — no  such  thing  as  everlasting  sleep. 
Self-destruction  seems  a  very  simple  thing — more  ofcen 
a  duty  than  not ;  but  it's  not  to  be  done  !  It  is  quite 
impossible  not  to  bo,  wiien  once  you  have  been. 

**  If  I  were  to  let  you  destroy  your  body,  as  you  were 
so  bent  on  doing,  the  strongest  interest  I  have  on  eartli 
would  cease  to  exist. 

"1  love  you,  liarty,  with  a  love  passing  the  love  of 
woman ;  and  have  done  so  from  tlie  day  you  were  })()rn. 
I  loved  your  father  and  mother  l)efore  you — ami  theirs  ; 
(;a  date  de  loin,  mon  pauvre  ami  !  and  especially  I  love 
your  splendid  body  and  all  that  belongs  to  it — brain, 
stomach,  heart,  and  the  rest ;  even  your  poor  remaining 
eye,  which  is  worth  all  the  eyes  of  Argus  ! 

"So  I  have  used  your  own  pen  and  ink  and  paper, 
your  own  right  hand  and  brain,  your  own  cipher,  ami  tiie 
words  that  are  yours,  to  write  you  this — in  English.  I 
like  English  better  than  French. 

*' Listen.  Monsieur  Noiret  is  a  fool  ;  aud  you  are  a 
poor  self-deluded  hypochoiuli'iac. 

''  I  am  convinced  youi-  I'ight  eye  is  safe  for  many  years 
to  come — probably  for  the  rest  of  your  life. 

"  You  have  quite  deceived  yourself  in  fancying  that 
the  symptom  you  p(U'ceived  in  your  i'ight  eye  thi-ctitcns 
the  disease  which  has  desti'oyed  your  left — for  the  sight 
of  that,  alas  I  is  irretrieval)ly  gone;  so  don't  li'ouljle  about 
it  any  more.  It  will  always  be  cluirming  to  lonkal,  but 
it  will  never  see  again.  Some  day  I  will  tell  yo'i  how  you 
came  to  lose  the  use  of  it.     I  think  I  know. 

"M.  Noiret  is  new  to  the  ophthalmoscope.  The  old 
humbug  never  saw  your  right  retiiui  at  all— nor  your  left 


256 


U 


one  either,  for  that  matter.  He  only  pretended,  and 
judged  entirely  by  what  you  told  him  ;  and  you  didn't 
tell  him  very  clearly.  He's  a  Belgian,  you  know,  and  a 
priest,  and  doesn't  think  very  quick. 

"/saw  your  retina,  althougli  but  with  his  eye.  There 
is  no  sign  of  congestion  or  coming  detachment  whatever. 
That  blind  portion  you  discovered  is  in  eiwri/  eye.  It  is 
called  the  ' piuictum  ccBcum.'  It  is  where  the  optic  nerve 
enters  the  retina  and  spreads  out.  Jt  is  only  Avitli  one 
eye  shut  that  an  ordinary  person  can  find  it,  for  each  eye 
supplements  this  defect  of  the  other.  To-morrow  morn- 
ing try  the  experiment  on  little  Finche  Torfs  ;  on  any 
one  you  meet.     You  will  find  it  in  everybody. 

'*  So  don't  trouble  about  either  eye  any  more.  I'm  not 
infallible,  of  course  ;  it's  only  i/oiir  brain  I'm  using  now. 
But  your  brain  is  infinitely  better  than  that  of  poor  M. 
Noiret,  who  doesn't  know  what  his  eye  really  perceives, 
and  takes  it  for  something  else  !  Your  brain  is  the  best 
brain  I  know,  although  you  are  not  aware  of  this,  and 
have  never  even  used  it,  except  for  trash  and  nonsense. 
But  you  shall — some  day.  I'll  take  care  of  that,  and  the 
world  shall  wonder. 

"  Trust  me.  Live  on,  and  I  will  never  desert  you 
again,  unless  you  again  force  me  to  by  your  conduct.  I 
have  come  back  to  you  in  tlie  hour  of  your  need. 

*'  I  have  managed  to  make  you,  in  your  sleep,  throw 
away  your  poison  where  it  will  injure  nobody  but  the 
rats,  and  no  one  will  be  a  bit  the  wiser.  I  have  made 
you  burn  your  touching  letters  of  farewell ;  you  will  find 
the  ashes  inside  the  stove.     Yours  is  a  good  heart ! 

"  Now  take  a  cold  bath  and  have  a  good  Ijreakfast,  and 
go  to  Antwerp  or  Brussels  and  see  people  and  amuse 
yourself. 

*'  Never  see  M.  Noiret  again.     But  when  your  aunt 


257 


you 
;.     I 


comes  back  you  must  both  clear  out  of  this  depressing 
priestly  hole  ;  it  doesn't  suit  either  of  you,  body  or  mind. 
Go  to  Dtisseldorf,  in  Prussia.  Close  by,  at  a  vilhige 
called  Riffrath,  lives  an  old  doctor,  Dr.  Hasenclever,  who 
understands  a  deal  about  the  human  heart  and  something 
about  the  human  body  ;  and  even  a  little  about  the  hu- 
man eye,  for  he  is  a  famous  oculist.  He  cun't  cure,  but 
he'll  give  you  things  that  at  least  will  do  you  no  harm. 
He  won't  rid  you  of  the  eye  that  remains  I  You  will 
meet  some  pleasant  English  people,  whom  I  particularly 
wish  you  to  meet,  and  make  friends,  and  have  a  holiday 
from  trouble,  and  begin  the  world  anew. 

**As  to  who  /  am,  you  shall  know  in  time.  My 
power  to  help  you  is  very  limited,  but  my  devotion  to 
you  (for  very  good  reasons)  has  no  limits  at  all. 

"  Take  it  that  my  name  is  Martia.  When  you  have  ^  i- 
ished  reading  this  letter  look  at  yourself  in  your  looking- 
glass  and  say  (lOud  enough  for  your  own  ears  to  hear  you) : 

'*  *  I  trust  you,  Martia  !' 

'^Then  I  will  leave  you  for  a  while,  and  come  back  at 
night,  as  in  the  old  days.  Whenever  the  north  is  in  you, 
there  am  I ;  seeing,  hearing,  smelling,  tasting,  feeling 
with  your  five  splendid  wits  by  day — sleeping  your  love- 
ly sleep  at  nigiit ;  but  only  able  to  think  with  your  brain, 
it  seems,  and  then  only  when  you  are  fast  asleep.  I  only 
found  it  out  just  now,  and  saved  your  earthly  life,  mon 
beau  somnambule  !     It  was  a  great  surprise  to  me  ! 

*'  Don't  mention  this  to  any  living  soul  till  I  give  you 
leave.     You  will  only  hear  from  me  on  great  occasions. 

*'  MARTfA." 


**  p.  S. — Always  leave  something  to  write  with  by  your 
bedsule  at  night,  in  case  the  great  occasion  should  arise. 
On  ne  salt  pas  ce  qui  pent  arriver !" 

17 


258 


Bewildered,  beside  himself,  Barty  ran  to  his  looking- 
glass,  and  stared  himself  out  of  countenance,  and  almost 
shouted  : 

"  I  trust  you,  Martia  !" 

And  ceased  suddenly  to  feel  the  north. 

Then  he  dressed  and  went  to  breakfast.  Little  Frau 
thought  he  had  g;))ie  mad,  for  he  put  a  five-franc  piece 
upon  the  carpet,  and  made  her  stand  a  few  feet  off  from 
it  and  cover  her  left  eye  with  her  hand. 

'•'Now  follow  the  point  of  my  stick  with  your  right 
eye,''  says  he,  **and  tell  me  if  the  five-franc  piece  disap- 
pears." 

And  he  slowly  drew  with  the  point  of  his  stick  an  im- 
aginary line  fr  u  the  five-franc  piece  to  the  left  of  her, 
at  right  .mglos  to  where  she  stood.  When  the  point  of 
the  stick  was  about  two  feet  from  the  coin,  she  said : 

*'  Tiens,  tiens,  I  no  longer  see  the  piece  !" 

When  the  point  of  the  stick  had  got  a  foot  farther  on, 
she  said,  "Now  I  can  see  the  piece  again  quite  plain." 

'J'lien  he  tried  the  same  experiment  on  her  left  eye, 
riglitwards,  with  the  same  result.  Then  he  experiment- 
ed with  equal  success  on  her  father  and  mother,  and 
found  that  every  eye  at  No.  30  Rue  des  Ursulines  Blanches 
had  exactly  the  same  blind  sj^ot  as  his  own. 

Then  oil*  he  went  to  Antwerp  to  see  his  friends  with  a 
liglit  heart — the  first  light  heart  he  had  known  for  many 
months ;  but  when  he  got  there  he  was  so  preoccupied 
■with  what  had  happened  that  he  did  not  care  to  see  any- 
body. 

lie  walked  about  the  ramparts  and  along  the  Scheldt, 
and  read  and  re-read  that  extraordiiuiry  letter. 

Who  and  what  could  ]\[artia  be  ? 

Tlie  reminiscence  of  some  antenatal  incarnation  of 
his  own  soul  ?  the  soul  of  some  ancestor  or  ancestress — 


259 


of 


jss- 


of  his  mother,  perhaps  ?  or,  perliaps,  some  occult  portion 
of  himself — of  his  own  brain  in  unconscious  cerebration 
d  uring  sleep  ? 

As  a  child  and  a  small  boy,  and  even  as  a  very  young 
man.  he  had  often  dreamt  at  night  of  a  strange,  dim 
land  by  the  sea,  a  land  unlike  any  land  he  had  ever  be- 
held with  the  Avaking  eye,  where  beautiful  aquatic  peo- 
ple, mermen  and  mermaids  and  charming  little  nier- 
children  (of  which  he  was  one)  lived  an  ai  phibious  life 
by  day,  diving  and  sporting  in  the  waves. 

Splendid  caverns,  decorated  with  precious  stones,  and 
hung  with  so^t  moss,  and  shining  with  a  strange  light; 
heavenly  music,  sweet,  affectionate  caresses  —  and  then 
total  darkness  ;  and  yet  one  knew  who  and  what  and 
where  everything  and  everybody  was  by  some  keener 
sense  than  that  of  sight. 

It  all  seemed  strange  and  delightful,  but  so  vague 
and  shadowy  it  was  im^tossible  to  remember  anything 
clearly;  but  ever  pervading  all  things  was  that  feeling 
of  the  north  which  had  alwavs  been  such  a  comfort  to 
him. 

Was  this  extraordinary  letter  the  result  of  some  such 
forgotten  dream  he  may  have  had  during  the  j)revious 
night,  and  which  may  have  prompted  him  to  write  it  in 
his  sleep  ?  some  internal  knowledge  of  the  anatomy  of 
his  own  eye  which  was  denied  to  him  when  awake  ? 

Anyhow,  it  was  evidently  true  about  that  hliiul  s[)ot 
in  the  retina  (the  piinctnm  ripcum).  and  that  he  had  been 
frightening  himself  out  of  his  wits  for  nothing,  and  that 
his  right  eye  was  really  sound  ;  and,  all  through  this  won- 
drous yet  simple  revelation,  it  was  time  this  old  hyster- 
ical mock-disease  should  die. 

Once  more  life  was  full  of  hopes  and  possibilities,  and 
with  such  inarticulate  and  mysterious  promptings  as  he 


260 


often  felt  within  his  soul,  and  such  a  hidden  gift  to 
guide  tlieni,  what  might  he  not  one  day  develop  into  ? 

Then  he  went  and  found  Tescheles,  and  they  dined 
together  with  a  famous  piiiiiist,  Louis  Brassin,  and  after- 
wards tliere  was  music,  and  Barty  felt  the  north,  and  his 
1)1  iss  was  transcendent  as  lie  went  back  to  Malines  by  the 
last  train — talking  to  Martia  (as  he  expressed  it  to  him- 
self) in  a  confidential  whisper  which  he  made  audible  to 
Ills  own  ear  (that  she,  if  it  was  a  she,  might  hear  too) ; 
almost  praying,  in  a  fervor  of  hope  and  gratitude ;  and 
begging  for  further  guidance;  and  he  went  warmly  to 
sleep,  hugging  close  within  himself,  somewhere  about  the 
region  of  the  diaphragm,  an  ineffable  imaginary  some- 
thing which  he  felt  to  be  more  precious  than  any  posses- 
sion that  had  ever  yet  been  his — more  precious  even  than 
the  apple  of  his  remaining  eye  ;  and  when  he  awoke  next 
morning  he  felt  he  had  been  most  blissfully  dreaming 
all  night  long,  but  could  not  remember  anything  of  his 
dreams,  and  on  a  piece  of  paper  he  had  left  by  his  bed- 
side was  written  in  pencil,  in  his  own  blaze : 

*'You  must  depend  upon  yourself,  Barty,  not  on  me. 
Follow  your  own  instincts  when  you  feel  you  can  do  so 
without  self-reproach,  and  all  will  be  well  with  you. — M." 

His  instincts  led  him  to  spend  the  day  in  Brussels,  and 
he  followed  them ;  he  still  wanted  to  walk  about  and 
muse  and  ponder,  and  Brussels  is  a  very  nice,  gay,  and 
civilized  city  for  such  a  purpose  —  a  little  Paris,  with 
charming  streets  and  shops  and  a  charming  arcade,  and 
very  good  places  to  eat  and  drink  in,  and  hear  pretty 
music. 

He  did  all  this,  and  spent  a  happy  day. 

He  came  to  the  conclusion  that  the  only  way  to  keenly 
appreciate  and  thoroughly  enjoy  the  priceless  gift  of 


261 


sight  in  one  eye  was  to  lose  tliat  of  the  other ;  in  the 
kingdom  of  the  blind  the  one-eyed  is  king,  and  he  fully 
revelled  in  the  royalty  that  was  now  his,  he  hoped,  for 
evermore ;  but  wished  for  himself  as  limited  a  kingdom 
and  as  few  subjects  as  possible. 

Then  back  to  Malines  by  the  last  train — and  the  sen- 
sation of  the  north,  and  a  good-nitrht ;  l)ut  no  message 
in  the  morning  —  no  message  from  ^lartia  for  many 
mornings  to  come. 

He  received,  however,  a  long  letter  from  Lady  Caro- 
line. 

The  old  Marquis  had  died  Avithout  pain,  and  with 
nearly  all  his  family  round  him  ;  but  perfectly  childish, 
as  he  had  been  for  two  or  three  years.  He  was  to  be 
buried  on  the  following  Monday. 

Barty  wrote  a  long  letter  in  reply,  telling  his  aunt  how 
much  better  he  had  suddenly  become  in  health  and  spir- 
its ;  how  he  had  thought  of  things,  and  quite  reconciled 
himself  at  last  to  the  loss  of  his  left  eye,  and  meant  to 
keep  the  other  and  make  the  best  of  it  he  could  ;  how  he 
had  heard  of  a  certain  Doctor  Hasenclever,  a  famous 
oculist  near  Diisseldorf,  and  would  like  to  consult  him  ; 
how  Diisseldorf  was  such  a  healthy  town,  charming  and 
gay,  full  of  painters  and  soldiers,  tlie  best  and  nicest 
people  in  the  world  —  and  also  very  cheap,  ^lightn'i 
they  try  it  ? 

He  was  very  anxious  indeed  to  go  hack  io  his  paint- 
ing, and  DUsseldorf  was  as  good  a  school  as  any,  etc., 
etc.,  etc.  He  wrote  pages  —  of  the  kind  lie  knew  she 
would  like,  for  it  was  of  the  kind  he  liked  writing  to 
her;  they  understood  each  other  thorouglily,  he  and 
Lady  Caroline,  and  well  he  knew  that  she  could  only  be 
quite  happy  in  doing  whatever  he  had  most  at  heart. 

How  he  longed  to  tell  her  everything  !  but  that  must 


262 


not  be.  I  can  imagine  all  the  deep  fliscomfort  to  poor 
Barty  of  having  to  be  discreet  for  the  first  time  in  his 
life,  of  having  to  keep  a  secret — and  from  his  beloved 
Aunt  Caroline  of  all  people  in  the  world  ! 

That  was  a  happy  week  he  spent — mostly  in  Antwerp 
among  the  painters.  He  got  no  more  letters  from  Mar- 
tia,  not  for  many  days  to  come ;  bnt  he  felt  the  north 
every  night  as  he  sank  into  liealthy  sleej),  and  woke  in 
the  morning  full  of  hope  and  confidence  in  himself — at 
last  snus  pcui'  d  mns  rcproclie. 

One  day  in  Brussels  he  met  M.  Xoiret,  who  naturally 
put  on  a  very  grave  face  ;  they  shook  hands,  and  Barty 
inquired  aifectionately  after  the  little  Italian  greyhound, 
and  asked  what  was  the  French  for  ^'^ pnnctum  cwcum." 

Said  Xoirot :  ''(,>a  s'api)elle  h  point  carlie — c'est  uno 
portion  de  la  retine  avec  laquelle  on  ne  pent  pas 
voir.   ..." 

Barty  laughed  and  shook  hands  again,  and  left  the 
Professor  staring. 

Then  he  was  a  great  deal  with  Father  Louis.  They 
went  to  Ghent  together,  and  other  places  of  interest; 
and  to  concerts  in  Brussels. 

The  good  Dominican  was  very  sorrowful  at  the  pros- 
pect of  soon  losing  his  friend,  Poor  Barty!  The  trial 
it  was  to  him  not  to  reveal  his  secret  to  this  singularly 
kind  and  sympathetic  comrade  ;  not  even  under  the  seal 
of  confession  !  So  he  did  not  confess  at  all  ;  although 
he  would  have  cojifessed  anything  to  Father  Louis,  even 
if  Father  Tjouis  had  not  been  a  priest.  There  are  the 
high  Calholics,  wlio  understand  the  souls  of  others,  and 
all  the  diffictilties  of  the  conscience,  and  do  not  prosely- 
tize in  \i  hurry;  an<l  the  low  Catholics,  the  converts  of 
tlie  day  heforu  yesterday,  who  will  not  let  a  body  be  ! 

Father  Lciiis  was  a  very  high  Catholic  indeed. 


263 


The  Lady  Caroline  Grey,  l'i\  Seainorc  IMaoo,  London, 
to  M.  Josselin,  36  Rue  des  Ursuliiies  Blanches,  Ma- 
lines  : 

^'My  dear  little  RAUTy,,  —  Your  nice  long  letter 
made  me  very  happy  —  ha[)]W  heyond  des(;ription  ;  it 
makes  me  almost  jealous  to  think  that  you  should  have 
suddenly  got  so  much  l)etter  m  your  health  and  spirits 
while  I  was  away:  you  won^t  want  me  any  more  !  That 
doesn't  prevent  my  longing  to  get  ha(d<:  to  you.  You 
must  put  up  with  your  poor  old  aunty  for  a  little  while  yet. 

'^And  now  for  my  news — I  couldn't  write  hefore. 
Poor  papa  was  buried  on  Monday,  and  we  all  came  back 
here  next  day.  lie  has  left  you  il-lW  :  c^^st  toujours 
9a!  Everything  seems  in  a  great  mess.  Your  I'u' io 
Runswick*  is  going  to  be  very  poor  indeed  ;  he  is  going 
to  let  Castle  Rohan,  and  live  here  all  the  year  round. 
Poor  fellow,  he  looks  as  old  as  his  fatlu'r  did  ten  years 
ago,  and  he's  only  sixty-three  !  If  Algy  could  only  make 
a  good  marriage  !     At  forty  that's  easier  said  than  done. 

'*  Archibald  and  his  wile  are  at  a  place  called  Monte 
Carlo,  where  there  are  gaming-tables  :  she  gami)les  fear- 
fully, it  seems  ;  and  they  lead  a  cat-and-dog  life.  She  is 
2)lus  que  raqnetfr,  and  extravagant  to  a  degree  ;  ami  he  is 
quite  shrunk  and  prematurely  old.  and  almost  shabby, 
and  drinks  more  bratuly  than  he  ought. 

**  Daphne  is  charming,  aiul  is  to  come  out  next  spring  ; 
she  will  have  ,€;]()()()  a  year,  hudvy  child  ;  all  out  of  choc- 
olate. What  nonsense  we've  all  talked  ;ibout  ti'adel  \\v 
shall  all  have  to  take  to  it  in  time.  The  Lonlay-Savignac 
people  were  wise  in  their  generation. 

"  And  what  do  you  think  't    Young  Dighy-Dobbs  wants 


*The  now  Munpiis  of  Wiiiiby. 


264 


to  marry  her,  out  of  the  school-room  I  He'll  bo  Lord 
Frognal,  you  know;  and  very  soon,  for  his  father  is  drink- 
ing himself  to  death. 

'Tie's  in  your  old  regiment,  and  a  great  favorite  ;  not 
yet  twenty — he  only  left  Eton  hist  Christmas  twelve- 
month. She  says  she  won't  have  him  at  any  priec,  be- 
cause he  stammers. 

*SShe  declares  vou  haven't  writtcii  to  ber  for  three 
months,  and  that  you  owe  her  an  illustrated  letter  in 
French,  with  priests  and  nuns,  and  dogs  harnessed  to  a 
cart. 

''And  now  for  news  that  will  delight  you  :  Slie  is  to 
come  al)road  witli  me  for  a  twelvemontli,  and  wishes  to 
go  v/itli  you  and  me  to  Diisseldorf  first  I  IsnH  that  a 
happy  coincidence  ?  We  would  all  s})end  tbe  summer 
there,  and  then  Italy  for  the  winter  ;  you  too,  if  you  can 
(so  you  must  be  economical  with  that  i''i(>0). 

"I  have  already  beard  woiulers  about  Dr.  llasonclever, 
even  before  your  letter  came  ;  he  cured  General  Haines, 
who  was  given  up  I)y  everyl)ody  here.  Lady  Palmerston 
told  me  ;  she  was  here  yesterday,  l)y-the-bye,  and  tlie 
Duchess  of  Jiermondsey,  and  both  inquired  most  kindly 
after  you. 

"  The  Duchess  looked  as  handsome  as  ever,  and  as 
proud  as  a  peacock  :  for  last  year  sbe  presented  her 
niece,  .lulia  Iloyce.  '  t'ae  divine  Julia,'  the  greatest 
beauty  ever  seen,  J  am  told — witb  many  thousands  a  year, 
if  you  please  —  Lady  Jaiu'  Royce's  daugbter,  an  only 
child,  and  ber  I'atber's  dead.  Sbe's  six  feet  high,  so  you 
would  go  mad  about  ber.  Sbe's  already  refused  sixty 
offers,  good  ones  ;  among  them  litth^  Lord  Orrisroot,  the 
hunchback,  who'll  bave  L'ldOO  a  day  (including  Sundays) 
when  he  conu's  into  tbe  title — and  tbat  can't  be  very  far 
off,  for  the  wicked  old   Duke  of  Dcptford      is  got  creep- 


265 


ing  paralysis,  like  his  father  and  grandfather  before  him, 
and  is  now  quite  mad,  and  thinks  himself  a  postman,  and 
rat-tats  all  day  long  on  the  furniture.  J^ady  Jane  is  furi- 
ous with  her  for  not  aecepting  ;  and  when  Julia  told  her, 
she  slapped  her  face  before  the  maid  I 

"  There's  another  gigantic  beauty  that  people  have 
gone  mad  about  —  a  Polish  pianist,  who's  Just  married 
young  Harcourt,  who's  a  grandson  of  that  old  scamp  tlie 
Duke  of  Towers. 

"  Talking,'  of  beauties,  wliom  do  vou  think  T  met  vestor- 
day  in  the  Park  ?  Whom  but  your  stalwart  friend  Mr. 
Maurice  {he  wasn't  the  beauty),  with  his  sister,  your  old 
Paris  playfellow,  and  the  lovely  Miss  TJiljson,  lie  intro- 
duced them  both,  and  I  was  delighted  witii  tbem,  and  wo 
walked  together  by  the  Serpentine;  and  Jifter  the  min- 
utes I  came  to  the  conclusion  that  Miss  (Jibson  is  as 
beautiful  as  it  is  possible  for  a  dark  l)eauty  to  be,  and  Jis 
nice  as  she  looks.  She  isn't  dark  really,  only  her  eyes 
and  hair  ;  her  complexion  is  like  cream  :  she's  a  freak  of 
nature.  Lucky  young  Maurice  if  she  is  to  be  liis  fate — 
and  both  well  off,  I  suppose. 

*'Upon  my  word,  if  you  were  King  ro])helua  and  she 
the  beggar-maid,  1  would  give  you  both  luy  blessing. 
But  how  is  it  you  never  fell  in  love  with  the  fair  lila? 
You  never  told  me  how  handsome  she  is.  She  too  com- 
plained of  you  as  a  correspondent,  and  declares  that  she 
gets  one  letter  in  return  for  three  she  writes  you. 

''I  have  bought  you  some  })retty  new  songs,  among 
others  one  by  ('harlcs  Kingslcy.  which  is  lovely  ;  ;ihout 
three  fishermen  and  their  wives  :  it  reminds  one  of  our 
dear  Whitby!  I.  can  [)lay  the  accompaiument  in  per- 
fection, and  all  by  heart  I 

**Give  my  kindest  renu->mbrances  to  Fathei'  Louis  and 
the  dear  Abbe  Lefel.)vre,  and  say  kind  tilings  from  me  to 


200 


1 


the  Torfses.     Martlia  scuds  her  love  to  little  Fran,  aiui 
so  do  I. 

"  We  hope  to  be  in  Antwerp  in  a  fortnight,  and  shall 
put  lip  at  the  Grand  Laboureur.  I  shall  go  to  Malines, 
of  course,  to  say  good-bye  to  people. 

*'  Tell  the  Torfses  to  get  my  things  ready  for  moving. 
There  will  be  five  of  us  :  I  and  Martha,  and  Daphne  and 
two  servants  of  her  own  ;  for  Daphne's  got  to  take  old 
Mrs.  Kichards,  who  won't  be  parted  from  her. 

*'Good-bve  for  the  present.  ^Ev  dear  bov,  I  thank 
(lod  on  my  knees  night  and  morning  for  having  given 
you  back  to  nic  in  my  old  age. 

"  Your  ever  affectionate  aunt, 

"CAROLrXE. 

*T.  S. — You  renuMuber  pretty  little  Kitty  llardwicke 
you  used  to  llirt  with,  who  married  young  St.  C'lair, 
who's  now  Lord  Kidderminster?  She's  just  had  three 
at  a  birth  ;  she  had  twins  only  last  year;  the  Queen's 
delighted.  Pray  be  careful  about  never  getting  wet 
feet—" 


One  stormy  evening  in  May,  ^[rs.  (Jibson  drove  Ida 
and  LcmIi  and  me  and  Mr.  Babbage,  a  middle-aged  but 
very  dap})er  War  Ollice  clerk  (who  was  a  friend  of  the 
(Jibson  family),  to  Chelsea,  that  we  might  explore  Oheyne 
Walk  and  its  classic  neigliborhood.  1  rode  on  the  box 
by  the  coachman. 

Wc  alighted  by  the  steamboat  pier  and  explored,  I 
walking  with  L(^ah. 

Wc  canu^  to  a  very  narrow  street,  (luito  straight,  the 
narrowest  street  that  could  call  itself  a  street  at  all,  and 
rather  long;  wc  were  llu'  only  ju'op'.e  in  it.  It  has  since 
disappeared,  with  all  thai  pa  lii-ular  ['ait  of  Chelsea. 

Suildeiily  wo  sa\\    a.  runa\\i»-   h  >''io   ./ithout  a  rider 


267 


coming  along  it  iit  h\\\  gallop,  straight  at  ns,witli  a  most 
demoralizing  sharp  clatter  of  its  iron  hoofs  on  the  stone 
pavement. 

"Your  backs  to  the  wall  I"  cried  Mr.  Babbage,  and 
we  flattened  ourselves  to  let  the  maddened  brute  go  by, 
bridle  and  stirrups  Hying — poor  Mrs.  Gibson  almost  faint 
with  terror. 

Leah,  instead  of  llattoning  herself  against  the  wall, 
put  her  arms  round  her  mother,  making  of  her  own 
body  a  shield  for  her,  and  looked  round  at  the  horse  as 
it  came  tearing  up  the  street,  striking  sparks  from  the 
flag-stones. 

Nouody  was  hurt,  for  a  wonder  :  but  Mrs.  rjil)son  was 
quite  overcome.  Mr.  Babbage  was  very  angry  with 
Leah,  whose  back  the  horse  actually  grazed,  as  he  all 
but  caufjht  his  hoofs  in  her  crinoline  and  hit  her  with  a 
stirrup  on  the  shoulder. 

I  could  only  think  of  Leah's  face  as  she  looked  round 
at  the  approaching  horse,  with  her  protecting  arms  round 
her  mother.  It  was  such  a  sudden  revelation  to  me  of 
what  she  really  was,  and  its  expression  was  so  hauntingly 
impressive  that  I  could  think  of  nothing  else,  its  miltl, 
calm  courage,  its  utter  carelessness  of  self,  its  immense 
tenderness — all  blazed  out  in  such  beautiful  '.  ^:'s,  in 
such  beautiful  white  and  black,  that  I  lost  all  self-con- 
trol;  and  wlien  we  walked  back  to  the  i)ier,  I'ollowiug 
the  rest  of  the  party,  I  asked  her  to  Ix'  my  wife. 

She  turned  very  pale  again,  and  the  Mesh  of  her  chin 
quivered  as  she  told  me  that  was  qnifc  hnpossihlc — and 
could  never  he. 

I  asked  her  if  there  was  anyl)0(ly  else,  and  she  said 
there  was  nobody,  but  that  she  did  not  wish  ever  to 
marry;  that,  beyoiid  ij'^r  parents  and  Ida.  slie  loved  and 
respected  me  more  liiau  anybody  else  in  the  whole  world, 


^m 


but  that  she  could  never  nuirry  me.  She  was  much 
agitated,  and  said  the  sweetest,  kindest  things,  but  put 
all  hope  out  of  the  question  at  once. 

It  was  the  greatest  blow  I  have  ever  had  in  my  life. 

Three  days  after,  I  went  to  America  ;  and  before  I 
came  back  I  had  started  in  New  York  the  American 
branch  of  the  house  of  V^ougeot-Conti,  and  laid  the  real 
foundation  of  tlie  largest  fortune  that  has  ever  yet  been 
made  by  selling  wino,  and  of  the  long  political  career 
about  which  I  will  say  nothing  in  these  pages. 

On  my  voysige  out  I  wrote  a  long  blaze  letter  to  Barty, 
and  poured  out  all  my  grief,  and  my  resignation  to  the 
decree  which  I  felt  to  be  irrevocable.  I  reminded  him 
of  that  playful  toss-up  in  Soutluunpton  Row.  and  told  him 
that,  haviug  surrendered  all  claiuis  myself,  the  best  thing 
that  could  happen  to  me  was  that  she  should  some  day 
marry  Jn'm  (which  1  certainly  did  not  think  at  all  likely). 

So  henceforward,  reader,  you  will  not  be  troubled  by 
your  obedient  servant  with  the  loves  of  a  prosperous 
merchant  of  wines.  Had  those  loves  been  more  suc- 
cessful, and  the  wines  less  so,  vou  would  never  have 
heard  of  either. 

Whether  or  not  1  should  have  been  a  liappier  man  in 
the  loug-run  I  really  can't  say — uiiue  has  been,  on  the 
whole,  a  very  hapi»y  life,  as  meji's  lives  go  :  but  I  am 
bound  to  admit,  in  all  due  uiodesty,  that  the  universe 
would  probably  have  been  the  poorer  by  so une  very  si)l en- 
did  |)co]>le,  and   perhaps  bv  some  verv  splc    ii     things  it 


could  ill    have  spared  ;    and  one  great   ai 


an 


tifully 


borne  sorrow  the  less  would  havb  been  usheiv    iiro  this 
world  of  manv  sorrows. 


It  was  a  bright  M:iy  morning  (a  year  after  tins'-) 
Barty  and  his  aunt   Caroline   and   his   cousin 


269 


and  their  servants  left  Antwerp  for  DUsseldorf  on  the 
Rhine. 

At  Malines  they  had  to  change  trains,  and  spent  half 
an  hour  at  the  station  waiting  for  the  express  from 
Brussels  and  bidding  farewell  to  their  Mechlin  friends, 
who  had  come  there  to  wisli  them  (xotl -speed  :  the  Ahhe 
Lefebvre,  Fatlier  Louis,  and  others  ;  and  the  Torfses, 
pere  et  mere  ;  and  little  Fran,  who  wept  freely  as  Lady 
Caroline  kissed  her  and  gave  her  a  pretty  little  diamond 
brooch.  Barty  gave  her  a  gold  cross  and  a  hearty  shake 
of  the  hand,  and  she  seemed  quite  heart-broken. 

Then  up  came  the  long,  fall  train,  and  their  luggage 
was  swallowed,  and  they  got  in,  and  the  two  guards  blew 
their  horns,  and  they  left  Malines  behind  them — with  a 
mixed  feeling  of  elation  and  regret. 

They  had  not  been  very  happy  there,  but  many  people 
had  been  very  kind  ;  and  the  place,  with  all  its  dreariness, 
had  a  strange,  still  charm,  and  was  full  of  historic  beauty 
and  romantic  associations. 

Passing  Louvain,  Barl,y  shook  his  fist  at  the  Catholic 
University  and  its  scientific  priestly  professors,  who  con- 
demned one  so  lightly  to  a  living  death,  lie  hated  the 
aspect  of  the  place,  the  very  smell  of  it. 

At  Verviers  they  left  the  Belgijin  train  ;  they  had 
reached  the  limits  of  King  Leopold's  dominions.  There 
was  half  an  hour  for  lunch  in  the  big  refreshment-room, 
over  which  his  Majesty  and  tlie  Queen  of  liie  Belgians 
presided  from  the  wall — nearly  seven  feet  high  each  of 
them,  and  in  their  re;^al  robes. 

Just  as  the  T?ohaiu  .tr'len'd  their  repast  another  Eng- 
lish party  came  to  their  tabi«'  atid  ordered  theirs — a  dis- 
T.ngui.  hed  old  gentli^man  of  trnvai  bearing  and  aspect  ; 
a  still  .y'"ing  nr/|dlc-aged  lady,  very  handsome,  with 
blue  spectacles  ;  aiud  un   innminsi-ly  tall,  fair  girl,  very 


i 


270 


fully  developed,  and  so  astonishingly  beautiful  that  it 
almost  took  one's  breath  away  merely  to  catch  sight  of 
her  ;  and  people  were  distracted  from  ordering  their 
mid-day  meal  merely  to  stare  at  this  magnificent  goddess, 
who  was  evidently  born  to  be  a  mother  of  heroes. 

These  British  travellers  had  a  valet,  a  courier,  and  two 
maids,  and  were  evidently  people  of  consequence. 

Suddenly  the  lady  wiih  the  blue  spectacles  (who  had 
seated  herself  close  to  the  Kohan  party)  got  up  and  came 
round  the  table  to  Barty's  aunt  and  said  : 

*'  You  don't  remember  me.  Lady  Caroline  ;  Lady  Jane 
Royce  I" 

And  an  old  acquaintance  was  renewed  in  tliis  informal 
manner — possibly  some  old  feud  patched  up. 

Then  everybody  was  introduced  to  everybody  else,  and 
they  all  lunched  together,  a  scramble  ! 

It  turned  out  that  Lady  Jane  Royce  was  in  some  alarm 
about  her  eyes,  and  was  going  to  consult  the  famous  Dr. 
Hasenclever,  and  had  brought  her  daughter  with  her, 
just  as  the  London  season  had  begun. 

Her  daughter  was  the  ** divine  Julia"  who  had  re- 
fused so  many  splendid  ott'c.  —among  them  the  little 
hunchback  Lord  who  was  to  have  a  thousand  a  day, 
"including  Sundays";  a  most  unreasonable  young  wom- 
an, and  a  thorn  in  her  mother's  flesh. 

Tlie  elderly  gentleman,  Admiral  Royce,  was  Lady 
Jane's  uncle-in-law,  whose  eyes  were  also  giving  him  a 
little  anxiety.  He  was  a  charming  old  stoic,  by  no  means 
pompous  or  formal,  or  a  martinet,  and  declared  he  re- 
membered hearing  of  Barty  as  the  naughtiest  boy  in  the 
Guards  :   and  took  an  immediate  fancy  to  him  in  con- 


sequence. 


I 
I 


They  had  come  from  Brussels  in  the  same  train  that 
had  brought   the   Uohans  from   M alines,  and  they  all 


271 


journeyed  together  from  Verviers  to  Dtlsseldorf  in  the 
same  first-class  carriage,  as  became  Englisli  swells  of  the 
first  water  —  for  in  those  days  no  one  ever  thought  of 
going  first-class  in  Germany  except  the  British  aristoc- 
racy and  a  few  native  royalties. 

The  divine  Julia  turned  out  as  fascinating  as  she  was 
fair,  being  possess(>d  of  those  high  spirits  that  result 
from  youth  and  health  and  faney-fre<'dom,  and  no  cares 
to  speak  of.  She  was  evident  1\  also  a  very  clever  and 
accomplished  young  la<ly,  absolutely  without  all'ectation 
of  any  kind,  iind  amiable  and  frolicsome  to  the  bighest 
degree — a  kind  of  younger  Barty  Josselin  in  petticoats  ; 
oddly  enough,  so  like  him  in  the  face  she  might  have 
been  his  sister. 

Indeed,  it  was  a  lively  party  that  journeyed  to  Diissel- 
dorf  that  afternoon  in  that  gorgeously  gilded  compart- 
ment, though  three  out  of  the  six  were  in  deej)  mourn- 
ing;  the  only  person  not  quite  happy  being  Lady  Jane, 
who,  in  addition  to  her  trouble  about  her  eyes  (which 
was  really  nothing  to  speak  of),  began  to  fidget  herself 
miserably  about  Barty  Josselin  ;  for  that  wretched  young 
detrimental  w^as  evidently  beginning  to  ingratiate  him- 
self with  the  divine  Julia  as  no  young  num  had  ever 
been  known  to  do  before,  keeping  her  in  fits  of  laughter, 
and  also  laughing  at  everything  she  said  herself. 

Alas  for  Lady  Jane  !  it  was  to  escajDO  the  attentions  of 
a  far  less  dangerous  detrimental,  and  a  far  less  ineligil)le 
one,  that  she  had  brought  her  daughter  with  her  all  tlie 
way  to  Kiff rath —  "  from  Charybdis  to  Seylla,"  as  we 
used  to  say  at  Brossard's,  putting  the  eart  before  the 
horse,  move  Latino ! 

1  ought  also  to  mention  that  a  young  Captain  (jiraliam- 
Reece  was  a  patient  of  Dr.  ilasenelever's  just  then — and 
Captain  Craham-Keece  was  heir  to  the  ot-togeiuirian  Earl 


272 


r 


?ti' 


of  Ironsides,  who  was  one  of  the  four  wealthiest  peers  in 
the  United  Kingdom,  and  had  no  direct  descendants. 

When  tliey  reached  Diisseldorf  they  all  went  to  the 
Breidenbaclier  Hotel,  where  rooms  had  been  retained  for 
them,  all  but  Barty,  who,  as  became  his  humbler  means, 
chose  the  cheaper  hotel  Domhardt,  Avhieli  overlooks  the 
mai-ket-place  adorned  by  the  statue  of  the  Elector  that 
Heine  has  made  so  famous. 

He  took  a  long  evening  Avalk  through  the  vernal  Hof 
Gardens  and  by  the  Uhine,  and  thought  of  the  beauty 
and  splendor  of  the  divine  Julia ;  and  sighed,  and  re- 
membered that  he  was  ]\Ir.  N^obody  of  Kowhere,  pictor 
i(/}iofus,  with  only  one  eye  he  could  see  with,  and  pos- 
sessed of  a  fortune  which  invested  in  the  3  per  cents 
would  bring  him  in  just  £6  a  year — and  made  up  his 
mind  he  would  stick  to  his  painting  and  keep  as  much 
away  from  her  divinity  as  possible. 

"  O  Martia,  Martia  I"  he  said,  aloud,  as  he  suddenly 
felt  the  north  at  the  right  of  him,  ''I  hope  that  you  are 
some  loving  female  soul,  and  that  you  know  my  weak- 
ness— namely,  that  one  woman  in  every  ten  thousand  has 
a  face  that  driven  me  mad ;  and  that  I  can  see  just  as 
well  with  one  eye  as  with  two,  in  spite  of  my  putictiwi 
ccacum!  and  that  when  that  face  is  all  but  on  a  level 
with  mine,  good  Lord  !  then  am  I  lost  indeed  !  I  am 
but  a  poor  penniless  devil,  without  a  name  ;  oh,  keep 
me  from  that  ten -thousandth  face,  and  cover  n:y  re- 
treat !" 

Next  morning  Lady  Jane  and  Julia  and  the  Admiral 
left  for  Ritfrath  —  and  Barty  and  his  aunt  and  cousin 
went  in  search  of  lodgings  ;  sweet  it  Avas,  and  bright  and 
sunny,  as  they  strolled  down  the  broad  Alice  Strasse  ;  a 
regiment  of  Uhlans  came  along  on  horseback,  splendid 
fellows,  the  band  playing  the  "Lorelei." 


re- 


i 
* 


273 


In  the  fulness  of  their  h-'arts  Daphne  and  Barty 
squeezed  each  other's  hand  to  express  tlie  joy  and  elation 
they  felt  at  the  pleasantness  of  everything.  She  was  his 
little  sister  once  more,  from  whom  he  'lad  so  long  heen 
parted,  and  they  loved  each  other  very  dearly. 

'•(^ue  me  voilu  done  bien  contente,  mon  petit  P>arty — 
et  toi  ?  la  jolie  ville,  hein  ?" 

*'C'est  le  ciel,  tout  boniiement — et  tu  vas  in'ap[)reiidre 
rallemand.  n"est-ce-pas,  m'amour  ?" 

•'Oui,  et  nous  lirons  Heine  enseml)le;  tiens,  a  propos  ! 
regarde  le  nom  de  la  rue  qui  fait  le  cxAn  I  liolkn-  Sfrassr  ! 
c'est  la  qu'il  est  ne,  le  pauvre  Heine  I    Ote  ton  chapcau  !'' 

(Barty  nearly  always  spoke  French  with  Daphne,  as  he 
did  with  my  sister  and  me,  and  said  '*  thee  and  tiiou.") 

They  found  a  furnished  house  that  suited  them  in  the 
Schadow  Strasse,  opposite  Teissier's,  where  for  two  hours 
every  'riiursday  and  Sunday  afternoon  you  might  sit  for 
sixpence  in  a  jiretty  garden  and  drink  colfee,  beer,  or 
Maitrank,  and  listen  to  lovely  music,  and  dance  in  the 
evening  nnder  cover  to  strains  of  Strauss,  Lanner,  and 
Gungl,  and  other  heavenly  waltz-makers  I  With  all  their 
faults,  they  know  how  to  make  the  best  of  their  lives, 
these  good  Vaterlanders,  and  how  to  dance,  and  especial- 
ly how  to  make  music — and  also  how  to  fight !  So  we 
won't  quarrel  with  them,  after  all  ! 

Barty  found  for  himself  a  cheap  bedroom,  high  up  in 
an  immense  house  tenanted  by  many  painters — some  ol 
them  English  and  some  American,  lie  never  forgot  the 
delight  with  which  he  awoke  next  morning  and  opened 
his  window  and  saw  the  silver  Rhine  among  the  trees, 
and  the  fir-clad  hills  of  Grafenberg,  and  licanl  the  gay 
painter  fellows  singing  as  they  dressed  ;  and  he  called 
out  to  the  good-humored  slavy  in  the  garden  below : 

^SJohanna,  mein  Fruhstiick,  bitte 

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274 


A  phrase  he  liad  carefully  rehearsed  with  Daphne  the 
evening  before. 

And,  to  his  delight  and  surprise,  Johanna  understood 
the  mysterious  jargon  quite  easily,  and  brouglit  him  what 
ho  wanted  with  the  most  good-humored  grin  he  had  ever 
seen  on  a  female  face. 

Coffee  and  a  roll  and  a  pat  of  butter. 

First  of  iill,  he  went  to  see  Dr.  llasenclever  at  Riffrath, 
whicii  was  about  half  an  hour  by  train,  and  then  half  an 
hour's  walk— an  immensely  prosperous  village,  which  owed 
its  prosperity  to  the  famous  doctor,  who  attracted  pa- 
tients from  all  parts  of  the  globe,  even  from  America. 
The  train  that  took  Bartv  thither  was  full  of  them :  for 
some  chose  to  live  in  Diisseldorf. 

The  great  nuin  saw  his  patients  on  the  ground-floor  of 
the  Konig's  Hotel,  the  principal  hotel  in  Riffrath,  the 
iiall  of  wliicli  was  always  crowded  with  these  afflicted 
ones — patiently  waiting  each  hie  turn,  or  hers  ;  and  there 
Harty  took  his  place  at  four  in  the  afternoon  ;  he  had 
sent  in  his  name  at  10  a.m.,  and  been  told  that  he  would 
be  seen  after  four  o'clock.  Then  he  walked  about  the 
village,  which  was  charming,  with  its  gabled  white 
houses,  oriuimcnted  like  the  cottages  in  the  Richter  al- 
bums by  l)lack  beams — and  full  of  English,  many  of  them 
with  green  shades  or  blue  spectaiUes  or  a  black  patch  over 
one  eye  ;  some  of  them  being  led,  or  picking  their  way  by 
means  of  a  stick,  alas  ! 

I^arty  met  the  th'ce  Royces,  walking  with  an  old  gen- 
tleman of  aristocratic  appearance,  and  a  very  nice-look- 
ing young  one  (who  was  Captain  (Jraham-Reece).  The 
Admiral  gave  him  a  frieiuUy  nod — Lady  Jane  a  nod  that 
almost  amounted  to  a  cut  direct.  But  the  divine  Julia 
gave  him  a  look  and  a  smile  that  were  warm  enough  to 
make  up  for  much  maternal  frigidity. 


the 


gen- 
ook- 
Tho 
that 
Julia 
ill  to 


2^5 


Later  on,  in  a  tobacconist's  sliop,  he  again  met  tlie  Ad- 
miral, who  introduced  him  to  tlie  aristocratic  old  gentle- 
man, Mr.  Beresford  Duff,  secretary  to  tiie  Admiralty — 
who  evidently  knew  all  about  him,  and  iiKjuired  quite  af- 
fectionately after  Lady  Caroline,  and  invited  him  to  come 
and  drink  tea  at  five  o'clock  :  a  new  form  of  hospitality 
of  his  own  invention — it  has  caught  on  I 

liarty  lunched  at  the  Konig's  Hotel  table  d'hote,  which 
was  crowded,  principally  with  Knglish  people,  none  of 
whom  he  had  ever  met  or  heard  of.  But  from  these  he 
heard  a  good  deal  of  tijc  Royces  and  Captain  ({rahau)- 
Ileece  and  Mr.  licresford  Duif,  ajid  other  smart  people 
who  lived  in  furnished  houses  or  expensive  a})artuients 
away  from  the  rest  of  the  world,  and  were  objects  of 
general  interest  and  curiosity  among  the  smaller  British 
fry. 

Rifirath  was  a  microcosm  of  English  society,  from  the 
lower  middle  class  up\;'ards,  with  all  its  res})ectai)ilities 
and  incompatibilities  and  disabilities — its  uariownesses 
and  meannesses  and  snobbishnesses,  its  gossipings  and 
backbitings  and  toadyings  ami  snubl)iiigs — delicate  little 
social  things  of  England  that  foreigners  ilon't  uiuler- 
staiid  I 

The  sensation  of  the  hour  was  the  advent  of  .lulia, 
the  divine  .Fulia  !  Cossip  was  already  rife  about  iu>r  and 
Captain  Reece.  They  iiad  taken  a  loug  walk  iu  the 
M'oods  together  the  dav  before — with  Ladv  .laiic  and  the 
Admiral  far  behind,  out  of  ear-shot,  almost  out  of  sight  I 

In  the  afternoon,  between  four  and  live,  Barty  had  his 
interview  with  the  doetoi — a  splendid,  white-haired  old 
nmn,  of  benign  and  intelligent  aspect,  almost  mesMierie, 
with  his  assistant  sitting  by  him. 

lie  used  no  iiew-faugled  ophthalujoscope.  ))ul  asked 
nuiny  questions  iu  fairly  good  Freii.'h.  and   felt  with   his 


276 


fingers,  and  had  many  German  asides  with  tlie  assistant. 
Ue  tohl  Barty  that  lie  had  hjst  the  sight  of  his  left  eye 
forever  ;  hut  tluit  with  care  he  would  keej)  that  of  the 
riglit  one  for  the  rest  of  his  life — harring  aeeidents,  of 
course.  That  he  must  never  eat  cheese  nor  drink  heer. 
'I'hat  he  (the  doctor)  would  like  to  see  him  once  a  week 
or  fortnight  or  so  for  a  few  months  yet — and  gave  him  a 
|)rescrij)tion  for  an  eye-lotion  and  disn-issefl  him  happy. 

Haifa  loaf  is  so  much  hetter  than  no  hread,  if  you  can 
only  count  ujxui  it  I 

Harty  wvnt  straight  to  ^[r.  Heresford  Dulf's,  and  there 
found  a  very  agreeahle  party,  includiMg  the  divine  Julia, 
who  was  singing  little  songs  very  i)rettily  and  accom- 
panying herself  on  a  guitar. 

"  '  You  ask  me  why  I  look  so  pale  y* "  sang  Julia,  just 
Uarty  entered  :  and  red  as  a  rose  was  she. 

Ijady  .laiu;  didn't  seem  at  all  overjoyed  to  see  Harty, 
but  Julia  did,  and  did  not  disguise  the  seeming. 

'riiere  were  tMght  or  ti'ii  [H'ople  there,  and  they  all 
Mp[)eared  to  know  about  him,  and  all  that  concerned  or 
belonged  to  him.  It  was  the  old  Loiulon  world  over  again, 
in  little  I  the  same  tittle-tattle  about  well-known  people, 
and  nothing  else — as  if  iu)thing  else  existed  ;  a  genial, 
easy-going.  g<>o«l -luiturcd  world,  that  he  had  so  often 
found  (Miarmii\g  for  a  tinu',  hut  in  which  he  was  never 
quite  hiippy  iind  had  no  |»ro[)i'r  place  of  his  own,  all 
through  that  fatal  bar-sinister — la  barrc  de  hatardise  ; 
a  world  that  was  his  and  yet  not  his,  and  in  whose  midst 
his  position  wms  a  false  one,  but  where  every  one  took 
him  for  granted  at  oiu-e  as  one  of  t/win^  s(>  long  as  he 
never  tresp;issi'(l  beyond  that  sutTerance;  that  there  must 
be  no  lovi'-making  to  lovely  young  heiresses  by  the  bas- 
taril  of  Antoim'tte  Josselin  was  taken  for  granted  also  I 

Before  Barty  had  been  there  half  an  hour  two  or  three 


0 


278 


pooplo  had  evidently  lost  their  hearts  to  him  in  friend- 
ship ;  among  tliem,  to  Lady  Jane's  great  discomfiture,  the 
liandsome  and  amiable  Graham-Ueece,  tlie  cynosure  of 
all  female  eyes  in  Uilfrath  ;  and  when  Barty  (after  very 
little  pressing  by  Miss  Koyce)  twanged  her  guitar  ami 
sung  little  songs — French  and  English,  funny  and  sen- 
timental— he  became,  as  he  had  so  often  become  in  other 
scenes,  the  liigoletto  of  the  company  ;  and  Hilfrath  was 
a  kingdom  in  wbicii  he  might  be  court  iester  in  ordi- 
nary  if  he  chose,  whenever  he  elected  to  honor  it  with 
his  gracious  and  facetious  musical  presence. 

So  mu-;li  for  his  debut  in  that  strange  little  over- 
grown busy  village  I     What  must  it  be  like  now  y 

Dr.  Ilasenclever  has  been  gathered  to  his  fathers  long 
ago,  and  nobody  that  I  know  of  has  taken  his  place.  AH 
those  new  hotels  and  lodging-houses  and  smart  shops — 
what  can  they  have  been  turned  into  ?  Jiarracks  ?  pris- 
ons ?  military  hospitals  and  sanatoriums  ?     How  dull  I 

Lady  Caroline  and  Daphne  and  Barty  between  them 
added  considerably  to  the  gJiyety  of  Dtisseldorf  that  sum- 
mer— especially  wlien  Boyces  and  Ree(5{»s  and  Duffs  and 
such  like  people  came  there  from  Bilfrath  to  lunch,  or 
tea,  or  dinner,  or  for  walks  or  drives  or  rides  to  Grafen- 
berg  or  Neanderthal,  or  steamboatings  to  Neuss. 

There  were  omi  or  two  other  English  families  in  Dtis- 
sehlorf,  living  there  for  economy's  sake,  but  yet  of  the 
world — of  the  kind  that  got  to  be  friends  with  the  Ko- 
hans  ;  half-pay  ohl  soldiers  and  sailors  and  their  families, 
who  introduced  agreeable  and  handsome  ¥hlan8  and 
hussars — frotn  their  Serene  Highnesses  the  Princes  Fritz 
and  Hans  von  Kselbraten  -  Himmelsblutwiirst  -  Silber- 
schinken,  each  i)assing  rich  on  £200  a  year,  down  to 
\H)ov  Lieutenants  von  tiiis  or  von  that,  with  nothing  but 
their  pay  and  their  thirty-two  quartorings. 


279 


long 


Also  a  few  counts  and  barons,  and  princes  not  serene, 
but  with  fine  German  fortunes  looming  for  them  in  the 
future,  though  none  amounting  to  i-'lOOU  a  (hiy,  like  lit- 
tle Lord  Orrisroot's  I 

Soon  there  was  hardly  a  military  heart  left  wlmlc  in 
the  town  ;  Julia  had  eaten  them  all  up,  except  one 
or  two  that  had  been  unconsciously  nibbled  by  little 
Daphne. 

Barty  did  not  join  in  these  aristocratic  revels  ;  he  had 
become  a  pupil  of  Herr  DiiiVentlialer,  and  workc<l  liuni 
in  his  master's  studio  with  two  brothers  of  the  brush  — 
one  English,  the  other  American  ;  delightful  men  who 
remained  his  friends  for  life. 

Indeed,  he  lived  among  the  painters,  who  all  got  to 
love  *'der  schune  liarty  Jos^-elin  "  like  a  brother. 

Now  and  then,  of  an  evening,  being  much  i»rcsse(l  by 
his  aunt,  he  would  show  himself  at  a  small  i>arty  in 
ISchadow  Strasse,  and  sing  aiul  be  funny,  and  attentive 
to  the  ladies,  and  render  himself  discreetlv  useful  and 
agreeable  all  round — and  make  that  party  go  otf.  Lady 
Caroline  would  have  been  far  happier  had  he  liv(Ml  with 
them  altogether.  But  she  felt  herself  responsible  for  her 
innocent  and  wealthy  little  niece. 

It  was  an  article  of  faith  with  Lady  Caroline  that  no 
normal  and  properly  constituted  young  woman  could  see 
much  of  Barty  without  falling  over  head  and  cars  in  love 
with  him — and  this  would  never  do  for  l)a[»line.  lie- 
sides,  they  were  first-cousins.  So  she  ac<piiesccd  in  the 
independence  of  his  life  apart  from  them.  She  was  not 
responsible  for  the  divine  Julia,  who  might  fall  in  love 
with  him  just  as  she  ])leased,  and  welcome  I  That  was 
Lady  Jane's  lookout,  and  Captain  Graham- Recce's. 

But  Barty  always  dined  with  his  aunt  and  cousin  on 
Thursdays  and  Sundays,  after  listening  to  the  music  in 


m 


280 


Geissler's  Ganloii,  opposite,  and  driiikiiiir  cofToo  with 
them  tliere,  juid  also  with  J'l'iiieu  Fritz  and  Prince  Hans, 
who  always  joined  the  party  and  smoked  their  ehea}> 
cigars;  and  soinetinies  tiie  divine  .lulia  would  make  one 
of  the  i)arty  too,  with  her  mother  and  uncle  and  Captain 
Heece  ;  and  the  good  painter  fellows  would  envy  from 
afar  their  heloved  hut  too  fortunate  comrade  ;  and  the 
liussars  and  Uhlans,  von  this  and  xon  that,  would  iind 
seats  and  tahles  as  near  the  princely  company  as  pos- 
sihle. 

And  every  time  a  general  oflicer  entered  the  garden,  up 
stood  every  oliicer  of  inferior  rank  till  the  great  man  had 
comfortablv  seated  himself  somewhere  in  the  azure  sun- 
shine  of  Julia's  forget-me-not  warm  glance. 

And  hefore  the  summer  had  fulfilled  itself,  and  the 
roses  at  (Jeissler's  were  overblown,  it  became  evident  to 
Lady  Caroline,  if  to  none  other,  that  Julia  had  eyes  for 
no  one  else  in  the  world  hut  Jiarty  Josselin.  I  had  it 
from  Lady  Caroline  herself. 

But  Barty  Josselin  had  eyes  only  (such  eyes  as  they 
were)  for  his  work  at  Ilerr  Dult'enthaler's,  and  lived  labo- 
rious days,  except  on  Thursday  and  Sunday  aftenioons, 
and  shunned  delights,  except  to  dine  at  the  liuusberg 
Spcite  rei  with  his  two  fellow -pupils,  and  Henley  and 
Armstrong  and  Bancroft  and  du  Maurier  and  others, 
all  painters,  mostly  liritish  and  Yankee;  jind  an  uncom- 
moidy  lively  and  agreeable  repast  that  was  I  Ami  after- 
wards, long  walks  by  moon  or  star  light,  or  music  at  each 
other's  rooms,  ami  that  engrossing  techn'cal  shop  talk 
that  never  palls  on  those  who  talk  it.  No  (.  i'  irdsman's 
talk  of  turf  or  s])ort  or  the  ballet  had  ever  been  so  good 
as  this,  in  Barty's  estimation  ;  no  agreeable  society  gossip 
at  Mr.  Beresford  Dulf's  KiU'rath  tea-parties  ! 

Once  in  every  fortnight  or  so  Barty  would  report  him- 


suu- 


thcy 
liibo- 


"     YOU   DON'T  MEAN    TO   SAY   YOU'Uli  (iOlNti   T»)   I'MM    l(»Il   IHKK 


,-  I' 


282 


^ 

r 


self  to  Dr.  Hasenclever,  and  spend  the  day  in  KifTrath 
and  lunch  with  the  good  old  Beresford  Duff,  who  was 
very  fond  of  him,  and  who  lamented  over  his  loss  of  caste 

devoting  iiimsclf  professionally  to  art. 

"God  bless  me — my  dear  liarty,  you  don't  mean  to 
say  you're  going  to  paint  for  hire!'' 

**  Indeed  I  am,  if  any  one  will  hire  me.  How  else  am 
I  to  live  ?" 

"  Well,  you  know  best,  my  dear  boy  ;  but  I  should 
have  thought  the  Kohans  might  have  got  you  something 
better  than  that.  It's  true,  Buekner  does  it,  and  Swinton, 
and  Francis  (Jrant  I  But  stilt,  you  know  .  .  ,  there  are 
other  ways  of  getting  on  for  a  fellow  like  you.  Look  at 
Prince  Gelbioso,  who  ran  away  with  the  Duciiess  of  Flit- 
wick  !  He  didn't  sing  a  bit  better  than  you  do,  and  as 
for  looks,  you  beat  him  hollow,  my  dear  boy ;  yet  all 
London  went  mad  about  Prince  Gelbioso,  and  so  did 
she  ;  and  off  she  bolted  with  him,  bag  and  baggage,  leav- 
ing husband  and  children  and  friends  and  all  !  and  she'd 
got  ten  thousand  a  year  of  her  own  ;  and  when  the 
Duke  divorced  her  they  were  nuirried,  and  lived  hap- 
pily ever  after  —  in  Italy;  and  some  of  the  best  peo- 
ple called  upon  'em,  by  George !  .  .  .  just  to  spite  the 
Duke  !" 

Barty  felt  it  would  seem  priggish  or  even  insincere  if 
he  were  to  disclaim  any  wish  to  emulate  Prince  Gelbioso  ; 
so  he  merely  said  he  thought  painting  easier  on  the  whole, 
and  not  so  risky ;  and  the  good  Beresford  Duff  talked  of 
other  things — of  the  divine  Julia,  and  what  a  good  thing 
it  would  be  if  she  and  Graham-Keece  could  make  a  match 
of  it. 

"  Two  of  the  finest  fortunes  in  England,  by  George  ! 
they  ought  to  come  together,  if  only  just  for  the  fun  of 
the  thing  !    Not  that  she  is  a  bit  in  love  with  him — I'll  eat 


283 


my  hat  if  she  is  I  What  a  pity  you  ain't  goin'  to  be  Lord 
Ironsides,  Barty  I" 

Barty  frankly  confessed  he  shouldn't  much  object,  for 
one. 

**  But,  *ni  Tor  ni  la  grandeur  ne  nous  rendent  heureux,* 
as  we  used  to  be  taught  at  school." 

**Ah,  that's  all  gammon;  wait  till  you're  my  age,  my 
young  friend,  and  as  poor  as  /am,"  sail  Beresford  Duff. 
And  so  the  two  friends  talked  on.  Men 'or  and  Telema,- 
chus — and  we  needn't  listen  any  further. 


past  Scventb 


s 


"Old  ^vint('r  was  gone 
In  liis  weakness  l)aek  to  the  mountains  hoar, 

And  the  sprini^  came  down 
From  the  planet  that  hovers  upon  the  shore 
Where  the  sea  of  sunliijht  encroaches 
On  the  iiinits  of  wintry  niglit ; 
If  the  land,  and  tlie  air.  and  the  sea 
llejoiee  not  when  spring  approaches, 
We  did  not  rejoice  in  thee, 
Ginevra  !" 

— Shelley. 


RiFFUATir.  besides  its  natives  and  its  re*^ular  p]nglish 
colony  of  residents,  had  a  floating  population  that  con- 
stantly changed.  And  every  day  new  faces  were  to  be 
found  drinking  tea  with  Mr.  IJeresford  ])ntf — and  all 
these  faces  Avere  well  known  in  society  at  home,  you  may 
be  sure;  and  Uarty  made  ca[)ital  caricatures  of  them  all, 
which  were  treasured  up  and  carried  back  to  England; 
one  or  two  of  them  turn  up  now  and  then  at  a  sale  at 
Christie's  and  fetch  a  great  price.  I  got  a  little  pen- 
and-ink  outline  of  Captain  licece  there,  drawn  before  he 
came  into  the  title.  1  had  to  give  forty-seven  pounds 
ten  for  it,  not  oidy  because  it  Avas  a  speaking  likeness 
of  the  late  Lord  Ironsides  as  a  young  man,  but  on  ac- 
count of  the  little  "  B.  J.''  in  the  corner. 

And  only  the  other  evening  I  sat  at  dinner  next  to 
the   Dowager   Countess.      Heavens !    what   a   beautiful 


i'.:  ^ 


285 


creature  she  still  is,  witli  her  prematurely  white  hair  ami 
her  long  thick  neck  ! 

And  Jitter  dinner  we  talked  of  Uarty — she  with  that 
delightful  frankness  that  alwifys  characterized  iier 
through  life,  I  am  told  : 

"Dear  liarty  Josselin  !  how  desperately  in  love  I  was 
with  that  num,  to  he  sine  I  Kvervhody  was — he  niiglit 
have  thrown  the  handkerchief  as  he  pleased  in  Ifirt'rath, 
I  can  tell  you.  Sir  IJobert  I  He  wjis  the  handsomest  man 
I  ever  saw.  and  wore  a  hlack  pork-pie  hat  and  a  little 
yellow  Vamlyck  heard  and  mustache;  just  the  color  of 
Turkish  tobacco,  like  his  hair  I  All  that  sounds  odil 
now,  doesn't  it  'i  Fashions  have  changed — but  not  for 
the  better  !  And  what  a  figure  I  and  su(di  fun  he  was  I 
and  always  in  such  good  s{)irits,  poor  boy  I  iind  now  h"'s 
dead,  and  it's  one  of  the  greatest  mimes  in  all  the  worhl  ! 
Well,  if  he'd  thrown  that  handkerchief  at  me  just  about 
then,  I  should  have  picked  it  up — an«l  you're  welcome 
to  tell  all  the  world  so.  Sir  Robert  I" 

And  next  day  \  got  a  kiiul  and  pretty  little  letter  : 


"Dear  Siu  RoiiKirr, — T  was  (|!iite  scMious  bin.,  night. 
Barty  Josselin  was  incs  pmiiih'fs  amours  !  Whether  he 
ever  guessed  it  or  not,  I  can't  say.  If  not,  he  was  very 
obtuse  I  Perhaps  he  feared  to  fall,  and  didn't  feel  fain 
to  climb  in  conse'iueiice.  I  all  but  proposed  to  him.  in 
fact  !  Anyhow,  I  iun  j)roud  my  girlish  fancy  should  have 
fallen  on  such  a  man  I 

**  I  told  him  so  myself  oidy  last  year,  and  we  had  a 
good  laugh  over  old  times  ;  autl  then  I  told  his  wife,  and 
she  seemed  much  pleased.  I  can  understand  his  pref- 
erence, and  am  old  enough  to  foigivc  it  and  laugh — 
although  there  is  even  now  a  tear  in  the  laughter.     You 


286 


1^, 


know  his  daughter,  Julia  Mainwaring,  is  my  godchild  ; 
sometimes  she  sings  her  father's  old  songs  to  me  : 

"  '  Petit  chagrin  de  iiotre  enfance 
Codte  un  soiipir  !' 

*'  Do  you  remember  ? 

"  Poor  Ironsides  knew  all  about  it  when  he  married 
me,  and  often  declared  I  had  amply  made  up  to  him 
for  that  and  many  other  things — over  and  over  again. 
11  avait  bien  raison  ;  and  made  of  me  a  very  happy  wife 
and  a  most  unhappy  widow. 

**Put  this  in  your  book,  if  you  like. 

*' Sincerely  yours, 

"Julia  Ironsides." 

ThuL  time  flowed  smoothly  and  pleasantly  for  Barty 
all  through  the  summer.  In  August  the  Royces  left,  and 
also  Captain  Recce — they  for  Scotland,  he  for  Algiers — 
and  ai)pointed  to  meet  again  in  Ritfrath  next  spring. 

In  October  Lady  Caroline  took  her  niece  to  Rome, 
and  Harty  was  left  behind  to  his  work,  very  much  to  her 
grief  and  Daphne's. 

He  wrote  to  them  every  Monday,  and  always  got  a 
letter  back  on  the  Saturday  following. 

liarty  spent  the  winter  hard  at  work,  but  with  lots  of 
play  between,  and  was  happy  among  his  painter  fellows 
— and  sketching  and  caricaturing,  and  skating  and  sleigh- 
ing with  the  English  who  remaiiied  in  Diisseldorf,  and 
young  von  this  and  young  von  that.  I  have  many  of 
his  letters  describing  tliis  genial,  easy  life — letters  full  of 
droll  and  charming  sketches. 

He  does  not  mention  the  fair  Julia  much,  but  there  is 
no  doubt  that  the  remembrance  of  her  much  preoccupied 
him,  and  kept  liim  from  losing  his  heart  to  any  of  the 


% 

13 


n 


288 


fair  damsels,  English  and  Geriiian,  whom  he  skated  and 
danced  with,  and  sketched  and  sang  to. 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  lie  had  never  yet  lost  his  heart  in 
his  life — not  even  to  Julia.  He  never  said  much  about 
his  love-making  with  Julia  to  me.  But  his  aunt  did — 
and  I  listened  between  the  words,  as  I  always  do.  llis 
four  or  five  years'  career  in  London  as  a  thoroughgoing 
young  rake  had  given  him  a  very  deei^  insight  into 
woman's  nature — an  insight  rare  at  his  age,  for  all  his 
perceptions  were  astonishingly  acute,  and  his  uncon- 
scious faculty  of  sympathetic  observation  and  induction 
and  deduction  immense. 

And,  strange  to  say,  if  that  heart  had  never  been 
touched,  it  had  never  been  corrupted  either,  and  prob- 
ably for  lat  very  reason — that  he  had  never  been  in  love 
with  these  sirens.  It  is  only  when  true  love  fades  away 
at  last  in  the  arms  of  lust  that  the  youthful,  numly  heart 
is  wrecked  and  ruined  and  befouled. 

lie  made  up  his  mind  that  art  should  be  his  sole  mis- 
tress henceforward,  and  that  the  devotion  of  a  lifetime 
would  not  be  price  eiio^igh  to  pay  for  her  favors,  if  but 
she  would  one  day  be  kind.  He  had  to  make  up  for  so 
much  lost  time,  and  had  begun  his  wooing  so  late! 
Then  ho  was  so  happy  with  his  male  friends  !  Wliatever 
void  remained  in  him  when  his  work  was  done  for  the 
day  could  be  so  thoroughly  lilk'd  up  l)y  llonley  and  Han- 
croft  and  Armstrong  and  du  ^laurier  and  the  rest  that 
there  was  no  room  f(U'  any  other  aiul  warmer  passion. 
Wo 'k  was  a  joy  by  itself ;  the  rest  from  it  as  great  a  joy ; 
an  these  alternations  were  enough  to  fill  a  life.  To 
how  many  great  artists  had  they  sufficed!  and  what  hap- 
py liv»'s  iuul  been  led,  with  no  other  distraction,  and  how 
glorious  and  successful !  Only  the  divine  Julia,  in  all  the 
universe,  was  worthy  to  be  weighed  in  the  scales  with 


ed  .md 

eart  in 
about 
i  did— 
I.  His 
hgoiiig 
it  into 
all  his 
uncon- 
luction 

r  been 
I  prob- 
in  love 
;s  away 
y  heart 

le  mis- 
ifetinie 

if  but 
)  for  so 
late ! 
hatever 
for  the 
d  Ban- 
»st  that 
)assion. 

a  joy ; 
e.  To 
at  hap- 
iid  iiow 
i  all  the 
>,s  with 


289 


these,  and  she  was  not  for  the  likes  of  Mr.  Xobody  of 
Nowhere. 

Besides,  there  was  the  faithful  Martia.  Punctually 
every  evening;  the  ever-eomfortini!:  sense  of  the  north 
filled  hiin  as  he  jumped  into  bed;  and  he  Avhispered  his 
prayers  audibly  to  this  helpful  spirit,  or  whatever  it 
might  be,  that  had  given  him  a  sign  and  saved  him  from 
a  cowardly  death,  and  filled  his  life  and  thoughts  as  even 
no  Julia  could. 

And  yet,  although  he  loved  best  to  forgather  with 
those  of  his  own  sex,  woman  meant  much  for  him  I 
There  nu(.'<i  be  a  woman  somewhere  in  the  world — a  nee- 
dle in  a  l)ottle  of  hay — a  nature  that  could  dovetail  and 
lit  in  with  his  own ;  but  what  a  life-long  quest  to  find 
her!  She  must  be  young  and  beautiful,  like  Julia — rien 
que  ga  I  —  and  as  kind  and  clever  and  simple  and  well- 
bred  and  easy  to  live  with  as  Aunt  Caroline,  and,  heav- 
ens !  how  many  things  besides,  before  poor  Mr.  Nobody 
of  Nowhere  could  nuike  her  happy,  and  be  made  happy 
by  her ! 

So  Mr.  Nobody  of  Nowhere  gave  it  up,  and  stuck  to 
his  work,  and  made  much  progress,  and  was  well  content 
with  thiugs  as  they  were. 

lie  had  begun  late,  and  found  many  difiiculties  in 
spite  of  his  great  natural  facility.  His  principal  stock 
in  trade  was  his  keen  perception  of  human  beauty,  of 
shape  and  feature  and  expression,  nuile  or  IVuiale  —  of 
face  or  figure  or  movement ;  and  a  great  love  and  appre- 
ciation of  human  limbs,  especially  hands  and  feet. 

With  a  very  few  litdc  pen -strokes  he  could  give  the 
most  marvellously  subtle  likenesses  of  ])copl(!  he  knew  — 
beautiful  or  ordinary  or  jjlaiii  or  hideous;  and  the 
beauty  of  the  beautiful  pcojile,  just  hiuted  in  mer:  out- 
line, was   so  keen   and  true  and  fascinating  that  thia 


290 


''^i*.^ 


'1 


extraordinary  power  of  expressing  it  amounted  to  real 
genius. 

It  is  a  difficult  thing,  even  for  a  master,  to  fully  render 
with  an  ordinary  steel  pen  and  a  drop  of  common  ink 
(and  of  a  size  no  bigger  than  your  little  finger  nail)  the 
full  face  of  a  beautiful  woman,  let  us  say ;  or  a  child,  in 
sadness  or  merriment  or  thoughtful  contemplation;  and 
make  it  as  easily  and  unmistakably  recognizable  as  a  good 
photograph,  but  with  all  the  subtle  human  charm  and 
individuality  of  expression  delicately  emphasized  in  a 
way  that  no  photograph,  has  ever  achieved  yet. 

And  this  he  could  always  do  in  a  minute  from  sheer 
memory  and  unconscious  observation  ;  and  in  another 
few  minutes  lie  would  add  on  the  body,  in  movement  or 
repose,  aiul  of  a  resemblance  so  wonderful  and  a  grace 
so  enchanting,  or  a  humor  so  happily,  naively  droll,  that 
one  forgot  to  criticise  the  technique,  which  was  quite 
that  of  an  amateur  ;  indeed,  with  all  the  success  he 
achieved  as  an  artist,  he  remained  an  amateur  all  liis 
life.  Yet  his  greatest  admirers  were  among  tlie  most 
consummate  and  finished  artists  of  their  day,  both  here 
and  abroad. 

It  was  with  his  art  as  with  his  singing  :  both  were  all 
wrong,  yet  both  gave  extraordinary  pleasure  ;  one  almost 
feared  that  regular  training  would  mar  the  gift  of  God, 
so  much  of  the  charm  we  all  so  keenly  felt  lay  in  the 
very  imperfections  themselves  —  just  as  one  loved  him 
personally  as  much  for  his  faults  as  for  his  virtues. 

"  II  a  les  qualites  de  ses  defauts,  le  beau  Josselin,"  said 
M.  Taiie  one  day. 

**  Mon  cher,"  said  M.  Renan,  *'  ses  defauts  sont  ses 
meilleures  qualites." 

So  he  spent  a  tranquil  happy  winter,  and  wrote  of  his 
happiness  and  his   tranquillity  to   Lady   Caroline   and 


2di 


Daphne  and  Ida  and  me  ;  and  before  he  knew  where  he 
was,  or  we,  the  almond-trees  blossomed  again,  and  then 
the  lilacs  and  limes  and  horse-cliestnuts  and  syringas ; 
and  the  fireflies  flew  in  and  out  of  his  bedroom  at  night, 
and  the  many  nightingales  made  such  music  in  the  llof 
gardens  that  he  could  scarcely  sleep  for  them  ;  and  other 
nightingales  came  to  make  music  for  him  too  —  most 
memorable  music  !  Stockhausen,  Jenny  Ney,  Joachim, 
Madame  Schumann  ;  for  the  triennial  Musik  festival  was 
held  in  Dusseldorf  that  year  (a  month  later  than  usual) ; 
and  musical  festivals  are  things  they  manage  uncommon- 
ly well  in  Germany.  Barty,  unseen  and  unheard,  as  be- 
comes a  chorus-singer,  sang  in  the  choruses  of  Gluck's 
Iphigenia,  and  heard  and  saw  everything  for  nothing. 

But,  before  this.  Captain  Reece  came  back  to  Rilfrath, 
and,  according  to  appointment.  Admiral  Royce  and  Lady 
Jane,  and  Julia,  lovelier  than  ever ;  and  all  the  sweet- 
ness she  was  so  full  of  rose  in  her  heart  and  gatli- 
ered  in  her  eyes  as  they  once  more  looked  on  Barty 
Josselin. 

He  steeled  and  stiflEened  himself  like  a  man  who  knew 
that  the  divine  Julias  of  this  world  were  for  his  betters — 
not  for  him !  Nevertheless,  as  he  went  to  bed,  and 
thought  of  the  melting  gaze  that  had  met  his,  he  was 
deeply  stirred  ;  and  actually,  though  the  nortii  was  in 
him,  he  forgot,  for  the  first  time  in  all  that  twelvemonth, 
for  the  first  time  since  that  terrible  night  in  Malines,  to 
say  his  prayers  to  Martia — and  next  morning  he  found  a 
letter  by  his  bedside  in  pencil-written  blaze  of  his  own 
handwriting : 


of  his 
Lie   and 


**  Barty  my  Beloved, — A  crisis  has  come  in  your  af- 
fairs, which  are  mine  ;  and,  great  as  the  cost  is  to  me,  I 
must  write  again,  at  the  risk  of  betraying  what  amounts 


292 


to  a  sacred  trust ;  a  secret  that  I  have  innocently  sur- 
prised, the  secret  of  a  noble  woman's  heart. 

*'  One  of  the  richest  girls  in  England,  one  of  the 
healthiest  and  most  beautiful  women  in  the  whole  world, 
a  bride  tit  for  an  emperor,  is  yours  for  the  asking.  It  is 
my  passionate  wish,  and  a  matter  of  life  and  death  to  me, 
that  you  and  Julia  Koyce  should  become  man  and  wife; 
when  you  are,  you  shall  both  know  why. 

''Mr.  Nobody  of  Nowhere — as  you  are  so  fond  of  call- 
ing yourself — you  shall  be  such,  some  day,  that  the  best 
and  highest  in  the  land  will  be  only  too  proud  to  be  your 
humble  friends  and  followers  ;  no  woman  is  too  good  for 
you — only  one  good  enough  !  and  she  loves  you  :  of  that 
I  feel  sure — and  it  is  impossible  you  sliould  not  love  her 
back  again. 

*'  1  have  known  her  from  a  baby,  and  her  father  and 
mother  also ;  I  have  inhabited  her,  as  I  have  inhabited 
you,  although  I  have  never  been  able  to  give  her  the 
slightest  intimation  of  the  fact.  Y^n  are  both,  physical- 
ly, the  most  perfect  human  beings  I  was  ever  in  ;  and  in 
heart  and  mind  the  most  simply  made,  the  most  richly 
gifted,  and  the  most  admirably  balanced  ;  and  I  have  in- 
habited many  thousands,  and  in  all  parts  of  the  globe. 

'*  You,  liarty,  are  the  only  one  I  have  ever  been  able 
to  hold  communication  with,  or  make  to  feel  my  presence; 
it  was  a  strange  chance,  that — a  happy  accident ;  it  saved 
your  life.  1  am  the  only  one,  among  many  thousands  of 
homeless  spirits,  who  has  ever  been  able  to  influence  an 
earthly  human  being,  or  even  make  him  feel  the  magnetic 
current  that  Hows  tlirough  us  all,  and  by  wliich  we  are 
able  to  exist ;  all  the  rappings  and  table-turnings  are 
mere  hysterical  imaginations,  or  worse  —  the  cheapest 
form  of  either  trickery  or  self-deception  that  can  be. 
liarty,  your  unborn  children  are  of  a  moment  to  me  be- 


yond  anything  you  can  realize  or  imagine,  and  Julia 
must  be  their  mother  ;  Julia  Royce,  and  no  other  woman 
in  the  world. 

*'It  is  in  you  to  become  so  great  when  you  are  ripe 
that  she  will  worship  the  ground  you  walk  upon  ;  but 
you  can  only  become  as  great  as  that  through  her  and 
through  me,  who  have  a  message  to  deliver  to  mankind 
here  on  earth,  and  none  but  you  to  give  it  a  voice — not 
one.  But  I  must  have  my  reward,  and  that  can  only 
come  through  your  marriage  with  Julia. 

"When  you  have  read  this,  Barty,  go  straight  to  Riff- 
rath,  and  see  Julia  if  you  can,  and  be  to  her  as  you 
have  so  often  been  to  any  women  you  wished  to  please, 
and  who  were  not  worth  pleasing.  Her  heart  is  her  own 
to  give,  like  her  fortune  ;  she  can  do  what  she  likes  with 
them  both,  and  will — her  mother  notwithstanding,  and 
in  the  teeth  of  the  whole  world. 

"  Poor  as  you  are,  maimed  as  you  are,  irregularly  born 
as  you  are,  it  is  better  for  her  that  she  should  be  your 
wife  than  the  wife  of  any  man  living,  whoever  he  be. 

"  Look  at  yourself  in  the  glass,  and  say  at  once, 

"  '  Martia,  I'm  off  to  Riffrath  as  soon  as  I've  swallowed 
my  breakfast !' 

**And  then  I'll  go  about  my  business  with  a  light 
heart  and  an  easy  mind. 

*'  Mautia." 

Much  moved  and  excited,  Barty  looked  in  the  glass 
and  did  as  he  was  bid,  and  the  north  left  him;  and  Jo- 
hanna brought  him  his  breakfast,  and  he  started  for 
Riffrath. 


All  through  this  winter  that  was  so  happily  spent  by 
Barty  in  Dtisseldorf  things  did  not  go  very  hap^^iily  in 


294 


London  for  the  Gibsons.  Mr.  Gibson  was  not  meant  for 
business ;  nature  intended  him  as  a  rival  to  Keeley  or 
Buckstone. 

He  was  extravagant,  and  so  was  his  wife  ;  they  were 
both  given  to  frequent  and  most  expensive  hospitalities ; 
and  he  to  cards,  and  she  to  dressing  herself  and  her 
daughter  more  beautifully  than  quite  became  their  posi- 
tion in  life.  The  handsome  and  prosperous  shop  in 
Cheapside — the  "emporium,"  as  he  loved  to  call  it — was 
not  enough  to  provide  for  all  these  luxuries  ;  so  he  took 
another  in  Conduit  Street,  and  decorated  it  and  stocked 
it  at  immense  expense,  and  called  it  the  "Universal 
Fur  Company,"  and  himself  the  '*  Head  of  a  West  End 
firm." 

Then  he  speculated,  and  was  not  successful,  and  his 
affairs  got  into  tangle. 

And  a  day  came  when  he  found  he  could  not  keep 
up  these  two  shops  and  his  private  house  in  Tavistock 
Square  as  well ;  the  carriage  was  put  down  first — a  great 
distress  to  Mrs.  Gibson  ;  and  finally,  to  her  intense  grief, 
it  became  necessary  to  give  up  the  pretty  house  itself. 

It  was  decided  that  their  home  in  future  most  be  over 
the  new  emporium  in  Conduit  Street ;  Mrs.  Gibson  had 
a  properly  constituted  English  shopkeeper's  wife's  hor- 
ror of  living  over  her  husband's  shop — the  idea  almost 
broke  her  heart ;  and  as  a  little  consolation,  while  the 
necessary  changes  were  being  wrought  for  their  altered 
mode  of  life,  Mr.  Gibson  treated  her  and  Leah  and  my 
sister  to  a  trip  up  the  Rhine — and  Mrs.  Bletchley,  the 
splendid  old  Jewess  (Leah's  grandmother),  who  suifered, 
or  fancied  she  suffered,  in  her  eyesight,  took  it  into  her 
head  that  she  would  like  to  see  the  famous  Dr.  Hasen- 
clever  in  Riffrath,  and  elected  to  journey  with  them — at 
all  events  as  far  as  Dtisseldorf.     I  would  have  escorted 


295 


them,  but  that  my  father  was  ill,  and  I  liad  to  replace 
him  in  Barge  Yard  ;  besides,  I  was  not  yet  quite  cured 
of  my  unhappy  passion,  though  in  an  advanced  stage  of 
convalescence  ;  and  I  did  not  wish  to  put  myself  under 
conditions  that  might  retard  my  complete  recovery,  or 
even  bring  on  a  relapse.  wished  to  love  Leah  as  a  sis- 
ter ;  in  time  I  succeeded  in  doing  so  ;  she  has  been  fortu- 
nate in  her  brother,  though  I  say  it  Avho  shouldn't— and, 
0  heavens  I  haven't  I  been  fortunate  in  my  sister  Leah  ? 

My  own  sister  Ida  wrote  to  Barty  to  find  rooms  and 
meet  them  at  the  station,  and  fixed  the  day  and  hour  of 
their  arrival ;  and  commissioned  him  to  take  seats  for 
Gluck's  Iphigenia. 

She  thought  more  of  Ipliigenia  than  of  the  Drachenfels 
or  Ehrenbreitstein  ;  and  was  overjoyed  at  the  prospect  of 
once  more  being  with  Barty,  whom  she  loved  as  well  as 
she  loved  me,  if  not  even  better.  He  was  fortunate  in 
his  sister,  too  I 

And  the  Rhine  in  May  did  very  well  as  a  background 
to  all  these  delights. 

So  Mr.  Babbage  (the  friend  of  the  family)  and  I  saw 
them  safely  on  board  the  Baron  Osy  (''the  Ank-works 
package,"  as  Mrs.,  Gamp  called  it),  which  landed  them 
safely  in  the  Place  Verte  at  Antwerp  ;  and  then  they 
took  train  for  Dusseldorf,  changing  at  Malines  and  Ver- 
viers  ;  and  looked  forward  eagerly,  especially  Ida,  to  the 
meeting  with  Barty  at  the  little  station  by  the  Rhine. 


Barty,  as  we  know,  started  for  Riff  rath  at  Martia's 
written  command,  his  head  full  of  perplexing  thoughts. 

Who  was  Martia  ?  AVluit  was  she  ?  "A  disembodied 
conscience  ?"  Whose  ?  Not  his  own,  which  counselled 
the  opposite  course. 

He  had  once  seen  a  man  at  a  show  with  a  third  rudi- 


*^ 


296 


ii 


mentary  leg  sticking  out  behind,  and  was  told  this  ex- 
tra limb  belonged  to  a  twin,  the  remaining  portions  of 
whom  had  not  succeeded  in  getting  themselves  begotten 
and  born.  Could  Martia  be  a  frustrated  and  undeveloped 
twin  sister  of  his  own,  that  interested  herself  in  his 
affairs,  and  could  see  Avith  his  eyes  and  hear  with  his  ears, 
and  had  found  the  way  of  communicating  with  him 
during  his  sleep — and  was  yet  apart  from  him,  as  phe- 
nomenal twins  are  apart  from  each  other,  however  closely 
linked — and  had,  moreover,  not  managed  to  have  any 
part  of  her  body  born  into  this  world  at  all  ? 

She  wrote  like  him  ;  her  epistolary  style  was  his  very 
own,  every  turn  of  phrase,  every  little  mannerism.  The 
mystery  of  it  overwhelmed  him  again,  though  he  had 
grown  somewhat  accustomed  to  the  idea  during  the  last 
twelvemonth.  Why  was  she  so  anxious  he  should  marry 
Julia  ?  IL'd  he,  situated  as  he  was,  the  right  to  win 
the  love  ol  this  splendid  creature,  in  the  face  of  the 
world's  opposition  and  her  family's — he,  a  beggar  and  a 
bastard  ?  Would  it  be  right  and  honest  and  fair  to 
her  ? 

And  then,  again,  was  he  so  desperately  in  love  with 
her,  after  all,  that  lie  should  give  up  the  life  of  art 
and  toil  he  had  planned  for  himself  and  go  through  ex- 
istence as  the  husband  of  a  rich  and  beautiful  woman 
belonging,  first  of  all,  to  the  world  and  society,  of  which 
she  was  so  brilliant  an  ornament  that  her  husband  must 
needs  remain  in  the  background  forever,  even  if  he  were 
a  gartered  duke  or  a  belted  earl  ? 

What  success  of  his  own  would  he  ever  hojie  to  achieve, 
handicapped  as  he  would  be  by  all  the  ease  and  luxury 
she  would  bring  him  ?  lie  had  grown  to  love  the  poverty 
which  ever  lends  such  strenuousness  to  endeavor.  He 
thought  of  an  engraving  he  had  once  taken  a  fancy  to  in 


297 


Brussels  and  pnrchtased  and  hung  up  in  his  bedroom. 
/  havv.1  it  now  I  It  is  after  Galhiit.  and  represents  a  pict- 
uresquely poor  violinist  and  his  violin  in  a  garret,  and 
underneath  is  written  "  Art  et  liberte." 

Then  lie  thought  of  Julia's  lovelvface  and  magnificent 
body  —  and  all  his  manhood  thrilled  as  he  recalled  the 
look  in  her  oyes  when  thev  met  his  the  dav  before. 

This  was  the  strongest  kind  of  temptation  by  which 
his  nature  could  ever  be  assailed — he  knew  himself  to  be 
weak  as  water  when  that  came  his  way,  the  ten-thousandth 
face  (and  the  figure  to  match)!  lie  had  often  prayed  to 
Martia  to  deliver  him  from  such  a  lure.  But  here  was 
Martia  on  the  side  of  the  too  sweet  enemy  ! 

The  train  stopped  for  a  few  minutes  at  Neanderthal, 
and  he  thought  he  could  think  better  if  he  got  out  and 
walked  in  that  beautiful  valley  an  hour  or  two — there 
was  no  hurry  ;  he  would  taki  another  train  later,  in 
time  to  meet  Julia  at  Beresford  DufE's,  where  she  was 
sure  to  be.  So  he  walked  among  the  rocks,  the  lonely 
rocks,  and  sat  and  pondered  in  the  famous  cave  where 
the  skull  was  found — that  simple  prehistoric  cranium 
which  could  never  have  been  so  pathetically  nonplussed 
by  such  a  dilemma  as  this  when  it  was  a  human  head  ! 

And  the  more  he  pondered  the  less  he  came  to  a 
conclusion.  It  seemed  as  though  there  were  the  "tug 
of  war"  between  Martia  and  all  that  he  felt  to  be  best 
in  himself — his  own  conscience,  his  independence  as  a 
man.  his  sense  of  honor.  lie  took  her  letter  out  of  his 
pocket  to  re-read,  and  with  it  came  another  letter  ;  it 
was  from  my  sister,  Ida  ^Maurice.  It  tf>ld  him  when 
they  would  arrive  in  Diisseldorf. 

He  jumped  up  In  alarm — it  was  that  very  day.  lie 
had  quite  forgotten  ! 

He  ran  off  to  the  station,  and  missed  a  train,  and  had 


298 


to  wait  an  "hour  for  another  ;  but  he  j^ot  himself  to  the 
Rhine  station  in  Diisseldorf  a  few  minutes  before  the 
train  from  Belgium  arrived. 

Everything  was  ready  for  the  Gibson  party — lodgings 
and  tea  and  supper  to  follow — he  had  seen  to  all  that 
before  ;  so  there  he  walked  up  and  down,  waiting,  and 
still  revolving  over  and  over  again  in  his  mind  the 
troublous  question  that  so  bewildered  and  oj)pressed 
him.  AVho  was  Martia  ?  Avhat  was  she — that  he  should 
take  her  for  a  guide  in  the  most  momentous  business  of 
his  life  ;  and  what  were  her  credentials  ? 

And  what  was  love  ?  Was  it  love  he  felt  for  this 
young  goddess  with  yellow  hair  and  light-blue  eyes  so 
like  his  own,  Avho  towered  in  her  full-blown  frolicsome 
splendor  among  the  sons  and  daughters  of  men,  with  her 
moist,  ripe  lips  so  richly  framed  for  happy  love  and  laugh- 
ter— that  royal  milk-white  fawn  that  had  only  lain  in  the 
roses  and  fed  on  the  lilies  of  life  ? 

*'  Oh,  Mr.  Nobody  of  Nowhere  !  be  at  least  a  man ; 
let  no  one  ever  call  you  the  basest  thing  an  able-bodied 
man  can  become,  a  fortune-hunting  adventurer  !" 

Then  a  bell  rang,  and  the  smoke  of  the  coming  train 
was  visible — ten  minutes  late.  The  tickets  were  taken, 
and  it  slowed  into  the  station  and  stopped.  Ida's  head 
and  face  were  seen  peering  through  one  of  the  second- 
class  windows,  on  the  lookout,  and  Barty  opened  the  door 
and  there  was  a  warm  and  affectionate  greeting  between 
them ;  the  meeting  was  joy  to  both. 

Then  he  was  warmly  greeted  by  Mrs.  Gibson,  who  in- 
troduced him  to  her  mother ;  then  he  was  conscious  of 
somebody  he  had  not  seen  yet  because  she  stood  at  his 
blind  side  (indeed,  he  had  all  but  forgotten  her  exist- 
ence) ;  namely,  the  presence  of  a  very  tall  and  most 
beautiful  dark-haired  young  lady,  holding  out  her  slen- 


299 


der  gloved  hand  and  gazing  up  into  his  face  with  the 
most  piercing  and  strangest  and  blackest  eyes  that  ever 
were  ;  yet  so  soft  and  quick  and  calm  and  large  and  kind 
and  wise  and  gentle  that  their  piercingness  was  but  an 
added  seduction  ;  one  felt  they  could  never  pierce  too 
deep  for  the  happiness  of  the  heart  they  pronged  and 
riddled  and  perforated  through  and  through  ! 

Involuntarily  came  into  Barty's  mind,  as  he  shook  the 
slender  hand,  a  little  song  of  Schubert's  he  had  just 
learnt : 

"Du  dist  die  Ruh',  der  Friede  mild!" 


And  wasn't  it  odd  ? — all  his  doubts  and  perplexities 
resolved  themselves  at  once,  as  by  some  enchui  tment, 
into  a  lovely,  unexpected  chord  of  extreme  simplicity ; 
and  Martia  was  gently  but  firmly  put  aside,  and  the 
divine  Julia  quietly  relegated  to  the  gilded  throne  which 
was  her  fit  and  proper  apanage. 

Barty  saw  to  the  luggage,  and  sent  it  on,  and  they  all 
went  on  foot  behind  it. 

The  bridge  of  boats  across  the  Rhine  was  open  in  the 
middle  to  let  a  wood-raft  go  by  down  stream.  This  raft 
from  some  distant  forest  was  so  long  they  had  to  wait 
nearly  twenty  minutes ;  and  the  prow  of  it  had  all  but 
lost  itself  in  the  western  purple  and  gold  and  dun  of  sky 
and  river  while  it  was  still  passing  the  bridge. 

All  this  was  new  and  delightful  to  the  Londoners, 
who  were  also  delighted  with  the  rooms  Barty  had  taken 
for  them  in  the  Konig's  Allee  and  the  tea  that  awaited 
them  there.  Leah  made  tea,  and  gave  a  cup  to  Barty. 
That  was  a  good  cup  of  tea,  better  even  than  the  tea  Julia 
was  making  (that  very  moment,  no  doubt)  at  Beresford 
Duff's. 

Then  the  elder  ladies  rested,  and  Barty  took  Leah 


300 


and  Ida  for  a  walk  in  the  Hof  gardens.  They  were 
charmed  with  everything — especially  the  fire -Hies  at 
dusk.  Leah  said  little ;  she  was  not  a  very  talkative 
person  outside  lier  immediate  family  circle.  But  Ida 
and  Barty  had  much  to  say. 

Then  home  to  supper  at  the  Gibsons'  lodgings,  and 
Barty  sat  opposite  Leah,  and  drank  in  the  beauty  of  her 
face,  whicii  had  so  wonderfully  ripened  and  accentuated 
and  individualized  itself  since  he  had  seen  her  last,  three 
years  before. 

As  ho  discreetly  gazed,  whenever  she  was  not  looking 
his  way,  saying  to  himself,  like  Geiaint :  '"  Here  by 
God's  rood  is  the  one  maid  for  me,' "  he  suddenly  felt 
the  north,  and  started  witli  a  kind  of  terror  as  he  re- 
membered Martia.  He  bade  the  company  a  hasty  good- 
night, and  went  for  a  long  walk  by  the  Ilhine,  and  had  a 
long  talk  with  his  Egeria. 

*' Martia,"  said  he,  in  a  low  but  audible  voice,  "it's 
no  good,  I  can't;  c'est  plus  fort  que  moi.  I  can't  sell 
myself  to  a  woman  for  gold  ;  besides,  I  can't  fall  in  love 
with  Julia  ;  1  don't  know  why,  but  I  cant ;  I  will  never 
marry  her.  I  don't  deserve  that  she  should  care  for  me  ; 
perhaps  she  doesn't,  perhaps  you're  quite  mistaken,  and 
if  she  does,  it's  only  a  young  girl's  fancy.  What  does  a 
girl  of  that  age  really  know  about  her  own  heart  ?  and 
how  base  I  sliould  be  to  take  advantage  of  her  innocence 
and  inexperience  !'' 

And  then  he  went  on  in  a  passionate  and  eager  voicp 
to  exjjlain  all  he  had  thought  of  during  the  day  and  still 
further  defend  his  recalcitrancy. 

**  Give  mo  at  least  your  reasons,  Martia ;  tell  me,  for 
God's  sake,  who  you  are  and  what !  Are  you  me  ?  are 
you  the  spirit  of  my  mother  ?  Why  do  you  love  me,  as 
you  say  you  do,  with  u  love  passing  the  love  of  woman  ? 


301 


What  am  I  to  you  ?  Why  are  you  so  bent  on  worldly 
things  ?" 

This  monologue  lasted  more  than  an  hour,  and  he  threw 
himself  on  to  his  bed  (juite  worn  out,  and  slept  at  once, 
in  spite  of  the  nightingales,  who  tilled  the  starlit,  breezy, 
balmy  night  with  their  shrill,  sweet  clamor. 

Next  mornin?' ,  as  he  expected,  he  found  a  letter  : 


are 


''Barty.  you  are  ruining  me  and  breaking  my  life,  and 
wrecking  the  plans  of  many  years — ])lans  made  before 
you  were  born  or  thought  of. 

''Who  am  I,  indeed  ?  Who  is  this  demure  young 
black-eyed  witch  that  has  come  between  us,  this  friend  of 
Ida  Maurice's  ? 

''She's  the  cause  of  all  my  misery,  I  feel  sure;  with 
Ida's  eyes  I  saw  you  look  at  her  ;  you  never  yet  looked  at 
Julia  like  that  I — never  at  any  woman  before  I 

"  Who  is  she  ?  No  mate  for  a  man  like  you,  I  feel 
sure.  In  the  first  place,  siie  is  not  rich  ;  I  could  tell  that 
by  the  querulous  complaints  of  her  middle-class  mother. 
She's  just  lit  to  be  some  pious  Quaker's  wife,  or  a  Sister 
of  Charity,  or  a  governess,  or  a  hospital  nurse,  or  a  nun — 
no  companion  for  a  man  destined  to  move  the  world  I 

"liarty,  you  don't  know  what  you  are  ;  you  have  never 
thoHfilif;  you  have  never  yet  looked  nu'fhin  ! 

'*  Barty,  with  Julia  by  your  side  and  me  at  your  back, 
you  will  be  a  leader  of  men,  and  sway  the  destinies  of 
your  country,  and  raise  it  al)ove  all  other  nations,  aiul 
make  it  t!ie  arbiter  of  Europe — of  the  whole  world — and 
your  seed  will  ever  be  first  among  the  foremost  of  the 
earth. 

"  Will  you  give  u})  all  this  for  a  pair  of  bright  black  eyes 
and  a  pretty  whito  skin  ?  Isn't  Julia  white  enough  for 
you':* 


302 


"  A  painter  ?  What  a  trade  for  a  man  built  like  you  ! 
Take  the  greatest  of  them ;  what  have  they  ever  really 
mattered  ?  What  do  they  matter  now.-  except  to  those 
who  want  to  imitate  them  and  can't,  or  to  those  who  live 
by  buying  cheap  the  fruits  of  their  long  labors,  and  sell- 
ing them  dear  as  so  much  wall  furniture  for  the  vulgar 
rich  ?  Besides,  you  will  never  be  a  great  painter  ;  youVe 
begun  too  late  ! 

'*  Think  of  yourself  ten  years  hence — a  king  among 
men,  with  the  world  at  your  feet,  and  at  those  of  the 
glorious  woman  who  will  have  smoothed  your  path  to 
greatness  and  fame  and  power  !  Mistress  and  wife — god- 
dess and  queen  in  one  ! 

*' Think  of  the  poor  struggling  painter,  painting  his 
poor  little  pictures  in  his  obscure  corner  to  feed  half  a 
dozen  hungry  children  and  tlie  anxious,  careworn  wife, 
whose  beauty  has  long  faded  away  in  the  petty,  sordid, 
hopeless  domestic  struggle,  just  as  her  husband's  little 
talent  has  long  been  wasted  and  used  up  in  wretched 
pot-boilers  for  mere  bread  ;  think  of  poverty,  debt,  and 
degradation,  and  all  the  miserable  ugliness  of  life — the 
truest,  tritest,  and  oldest  story  in  the  world  !  Love  soon 
flies  out  of  the  window  when  these  wolves  snarl  at  the  door. 

*^  Think  of  all  this,  liarty,  and  think  of  the  despair  you 
are  bringing  on  one  lost  lonely  soul  who  loves  you  as  a 
mother  loves  her  first-born,  and  has  founded  such  hopes 
on  you  ;  dismiss  this  pretty  little  middle-class  paritan 
from  your  thoughts  and  go  back  to  Julia. 

**I  will  not  hurry  your  decision  ;  I  will  come  back  in 
exactly  a  week  from  to-night.     I  am  at  your  mercy. 

**Martia." 


This  letter  made  Barty  very  unhappy.    It  was  a  strange 
dilemma. 


303 


What  is  it  that  now  and  again  makes  a  woman  in  a  single 
moment  take  such  a  powerful  grip  of  a  man's  fancy  that  he 
can  never  shake  himself  free  again,  and  never  wants  to  ? 

Tunes  can  be  like  that,  sometimes.  Not  the  pretty 
little  tinkling  tunes  chat  please  everybody  at  once  ;  the 
pleasure  of  them  can  fade  in  a  year,  ji  month — even  a 
week,  a  day  I  But  tiiose  from  a  great  mint,  and  wiiose 
charm  will  last  a  man  his  lifetime  I 

Many  years  ago  a  great  pianist,  to  amuse  some  friends 
(of  whom  I  was  one),  played  a  series  of  waltzes  by 
Schubert  which  I  had  never  heard  before — the  "  Soirees 
de  Vienne,"  I  think  they  were  called.  They  were  lovely 
from  beginning  to  end  ;  but  one  short  measure  in  partic- 
ular was  full  of  such  extraordinary  enchantment  for  mo 
that  it  has  really  haunted  me  through  life.  It  is  as  if  it 
were  made  on  purpose  for  me  alone,  a  little  intimate 
aside  a  mon  intention — the  gainliest,  happiest  thouglit  I 
had  ever  heard  expressed  in  music.  For  nobody  else 
seemed  to  think  those  particular  bars  were  more  beauti- 
ful than  all  the  rest ;  but,  oh  !  the  difference  to  me  ! 

And  said  I  to  myself  :  "That's  Leah  ;  and  all  the  rest 
is  some  heavenly  garden  of  roses  she's  walking  in  !" 

Tempo  di  valsa  : 

Rum — tiddleiddle  xim  turn  tuin, 

77VMle-tid(llc'-id(ll«'-i(ldl(3  M//<-tum,  turn 

Tuiii  tiddloiddle-iddle  itm  luiu,  lum 
ZYcMle-iddlt',  iddlu-Zat // /  .  .  .  etc.,  etc. 


in 


That's  how  the  little  measure  begins,  and  it  goes  on 
just  for  a  couple  of  pages.  I  can't  write  music,  unfortu- 
nately, and  I've  nobody  by  me  at  just  this  moment  wiio 
can  ;  but  if  the  reader  is  musical  and  knows  the  *'  Soirees 
de  Vienne,"  he  will  guess  tlie  i)articular  waltz  I  mean. 

Well,  the  Diisseldorf  railway  station  is  not  a  garilen  of 


304 

roses  ;  but  when  Leah  stepped  out  of  that  second-class 
carriage  and  looked  straight  at  Barty,  dans  h  hlanc  ties 
yeiix,  he  fitted  her  to  the  tune  he  loved  best  just  then 
(not  knowing  the  "  Soirees  de  Vienne"),  and  it's  one  of 
the  tunes  that  last  forever  : 

"  Du  bist  die  Riih',  der  Friede  mild!" 

Barty's  senses  were  not  as  other  men's  senses.  With 
his  one  eye  he  saw  much  that  most  of  us  can't  see  with 
two  ;  I  feel  sure  of  this.  And  he  sutldenly  saw  in  Leah's 
face,  now  she  was  quite  grown  up,  that  which  bound 
him  to  her  for  life — some  veiled  promise,  I  suppose  ;  we 
can't  explain  these  things. 

liarty  escorted  the  Gibson  party  to  RifPrath,  and  put 
down  Mrs.  Bletchley's  name  for  J)r.  llasenclever,  and 
then  took  them  to  the  woods  of  Ilammerfest,  close  hy, 
with  which  they  were  charmed.  On  the  way  back  to 
the  hotel  they  met  Lady  Jane  and  Miss  lloyce  and  the 
good  Beresford  Dulf,  who  all  bowed  to  Barty,  and  Julia's 
blue  ghince  crossed  Leah's  black  one. 

'*  Oh,  what  a  lovely  girl!"  said  Leali  to  Barty.  *'  What 
a  pity  she's  so  tall  ;  why,  I'm  sure  she's  half  a  head 
taller  than  even  1,  and  they  make  my  life  a  burden  to  me 
at  iiome  because  I'm  such  a  giantess  !  Who  is  she  ? 
You  know  her  well,  1  suppose  ?" 

"' She's  a  Miss  Julia  Uoyco,  a  great  heiress.  Her  fa- 
ther's dead  ;  he  was  a  wealtliy  Norfolk  Squire,  and  she 
was  his  only  child. '^ 

"Then  1  suppose  she's  a  very  aristocratic  person  ;  she 
looks  so,  I'm  sure!" 

"  V^ory  much  so  indeed,"  said  Barty. 

"  Dear  me  !  it  seems  unfair,  doesn't  it,  having  every- 
thing like  that;  no  wonder  she  looks  so  happy!" 


DR.  nASENCLEVER  AND  MRS.  BLETCHLEY 


she 


806 


Then  they  went  back  to  the  hotel  to  lunch  ;  and  in 
the  afternoon  Mrs.  Bletchley  saw  the  doctor,  wlio  gave 
her  a  prescription  for  spectacles,  and  said  she  had 
nothing  to  fear ;  and  was  charming  to  Leah  and  to  Ida, 
who  spoke  French  so  well,  and  to  the  pretty  and  lively 
Mrs.  Gibson,  who  lost  her  heart  to  him  and  spoke  the 
most  preposterous  French  he  had  ever  heard. 

He  was  fond  of  pretty  English  women,  the  good  Ger- 
man doctor,  whatever  French  they  spoke. 

They  were  quite  an  hour  there.  Meanwhile  Barty 
went  to  Beresford  Duff's,  and  found  Julia  and  Lady  Jane 
drinking  tea,  as  usual  at  that  hour. 

'MVho  are  your  uncommonly  well-dressed  friends, 
Barty  ?"  said  Mr.  Duff.  "  I  never  met  any  of  them  that 
/can  remember." 

''  Well — they're  just  from  London — the  elder  lady  is  a 
Mrs.  Bletchley." 

"  Not  one  of  the  Berkshire  Bletchleys,  eh  ?" 

"  Oh  no — she's  the  widow  of  a  London  solicitor." 

"  Dear  me  \  And  the  lovely,  tall,  black-eyed  damigella 
— who's  she  ?" 

''She's  a  Miss  Gibson,  and  her  father's  a  furrier  in 
Clicapside." 

"  And  the  pretty  girl  in  blue  with  the  fair  hair  ?" 

"  She's  the  sister  of  a  very  old  friend  of  mine,  Robert 
Maurice — he's  a  wine  merchant." 

'•  You  don't  say  so  I  Why,  I  took  them  for  people  of 
condition  !"  said  Mr.  Beresford  Duff,  who  was  a  trifle 
old-fasliioned  in  his  ways  '^^f  speech.  "  Anyhow,  they're 
uncommonly  nice  to  look  at." 

**  Oh  yes,"  said  the  not  too  priggishly  grammati- 
cal Lady  Jane;  ** nowadays  those  sort  of  people  dress 
like  duchesses,  and  think  themselves  as  good  as  any 
one." 


307 


^'They're  good  enough  for  me,  at  all  events,"  said 
Barty,  who  was  not  pleased. 

*'  I'm  sure  Miss  Gibson's  good  enough  for  ani/bodi/  in 
the  world  /"  said  Julia.  ''  She's  the  most  beautiful  girl  I 
ever  saw  !"  and  she  gave  Barty  a  cup  of  tea. 

Barty  drank  it,  and  felt  fond  of  Julia,  and  bade  them 
all  good-bye,  and  went  and  waited  in  the  hall  of  the 
Konig's  Hotel  for  his  friends,  and  took  them  back  to 
Diisseldorf. 

Next  day  the  Gibsons  started  for  their  little  trip  up 
the  Rhine,  and  Barty  was  left  to  his  own  reflections,  and 
he  reflected  a  great  deal ;  not  about  what  he  meant  to 
do  himself,  but  about  how  he  should  tell  Martia  what  he 
meant  to  do. 

As  for  himself,  his  mind  was  thoroughly  made  up  :  he 
would  break  at  once  and  forever  with  a  world  he  did  not 
properly  belong  to,  and  fight  his  own  little  battle  unaided, 
and  be  a  painter— a  good  one,  if  he  could.  If  not,  so 
much  the  worse  for  him.     Life  is  short. 

When  he  would  have  settled  his  affairs  and  paid  his 
small  debts  in  Diisseldorf,  he  would  have  some  ten  or  fif- 
teen pounds  to  the  good.  He  would  go  back  to  London 
with  the  Gibsons  and  Ida  Maurice.  There  were  no  friends 
for  him  in  the  world  like  the  Maurices.  There  was  no 
woman  for  him  in  the  world  like  Leah,  whether  she  would 
ever  care  for  him  or  not. 

Rich  or  poor,  he  didn't  mind  I  she  was  Leah  ;  she  luid 
the  hands,  the  feet,  the  lips,  the  hair,  the  eyes !  That 
was  enough  for  him  !  He  was  absolutely  sure  of  iiis  own 
feelings ;  absolutely  certain  that  this  path  was  not  only 
the  pleasant  path  he  liked,  but  the  right  one  for  a  man 
in  his  position  to  follow  :  a  thorny  path  indeed,  but  the 
thorns  were  thorns  of  roses  ! 
All  this  time  he  was  busily  rehearsing  his  part  in  the 


308 


•^'S**' 


chorus  of  Iphigenia  j  he  had  applied  for  the  post  of  sec- 
ond tenor  chorister  ;  the  conditions  were  that  he  should 
be  able  to  read  music  at  sight.  This  he  could  not  do, 
and  his  utter  incapacity  was  tested  at  the  Mahlcasten, 
before  a  crowd  of  artists,  by  the  conductor.  Barty  failed 
signally,  amid  much  laughter ;  and  he  impudently  sang 
quite  a  little  tune  of  his  own,  an  improvisation. 

The  conductor  laughed  too ;  but  l^arty  was  admitted 
all  the  same  ;  his  voice  was  good,  and  he  must  learn  his 
part  by  heart — tliat  was  all ;  anybody  could  teach  him. 

The  Gibsons  came  back  to  Diisseldorf  in  time  for  the 
performance,  Avhich  was  admirable,  in  spite  of  Barty. 
From  his  coign  of  vantage,  amongst  the  second  tenors., 
he  could  see  Julia's  head  with  its  golden  fleece ;  Julia, 
that  rose  without  a  thorn — 

"Het  Roosje  uit  de  dome  !" 

She  was  sitting  between  Lady  Jane  and  the  Captain. 

He  looked  in  vain  for  the  Gibsons,  as  he  sang  his  loud- 
est, yet  couldn't  hear  himself  sing  (he  was  one  of  a  chorus 
of  avenging  furies,  I- believe). 

But  there  were  three  vacant  seats  in  the  same  row  as 
the  Royces'.  Presently  three  ladies,  silken  hooded  and 
cloaked — one  in  yellow,  one  in  pink,  and  one  in  blue — 
made  their  way  to  the  empty  places,  just  as  the  chorus 
ceased,  and  sat  down.  Just  then  Orestes  (Stockhausen) 
stood  up  and  lifted  his  noble  barytone. 

"Die  Ruhe  kchret  mir  zuiUck" — 

And  the  yellow-hooded  lady  unhooded  a  shapely  little 
black  head,  and  it  was  Leah's. 

*^ Prosit  omen!'  thought  Barty — and  it  seemed  as  if 
his  whole  heart  melted  within  him. 

He  could  see  that  Leah  and  Julia  often  looked  at  each 


309 


other;  he  could  also  see,  during  the  intervals,  how  many 
double-barrelled  opera-glasses  were  levelled  at  both  ;  it 
was  impossible  to  say  which  of  these  two  lovely  women 
was  the  loveliest ;  probably  most  votes  would  have  been 
for  Julia,  the  fair-haired  one,  the  prima  donna  assoluta, 
the  soprano,  the  Roweiui,  who  always  gets  the  biggest  sal- 
ary and  most  of  the  applause. 

The  brunette,  the  contralto,  the  liebecca,  dazzles  less, 
but  touches  the  heart  all  the  more  deeply,  perhaps  ;  any- 
how, Barty  had  no  doubt  as  to  which  of  the  two  voices 
was  the  voice  for  him.  His  pasi^ion  was  as  that  of  Brian 
de  Bois-Guilbert  for  mere  strength,  except  that  he  was 
bound  by  no  vows  of  celibacy.  There  were  no  moonlit 
platonics  about  Barty's  robust  love,  but  all  the  chivalry 
and  tenderness  and  romance  of  a  knight-errant  underlay 
its  vigorous  complexity.  He  was  a  good  knight,  though 
not  Sir  Galahad  ! 

Also  he  felt  very  patriotic,  as  a  good  knight  should 
ever  feel,  and  prdud  of  a  country  which  could  grow  such 
a  rose  as  Julia,  and  such  a  lily  as  Leah  Gibson. 

Next  to  Julia  sat  Captain  Reece,  romantic  and  hand- 
some as  ever,  with  manly  love  and  devotion  expressed  in 
every  line  of  his  face,  every  movement  of  his  body  ;  and 
the  heaviest  mustache  and  the  most  beautiful  brown 
whiskers  in  the  world.  He  was  either  a  hussar  or  a 
lancer  ;  I  forget  which. 

'*By  my  halidom,"  m«;ntally  ejaculated  Barty,  *'I  sin- 
cerely wish  thee  joy  and  life-long  Jiappiness,  good  Sir 
Wilfred  of  Ivanhoe.  Thou  art  a  right  fit  mate  for  her, 
peerless  as  she  may  be  among  women  I  A  benison  on  you 
both  from  your  poor  Waniba,  the  son  of  Witless." 

As  he  went  home  that  night,  after  the  concert,  to  his 
tryst  with  Martia,  the  north  came  back  to  him — through 
the  open  window  as  it  were,  with  the  fire-flies  and  fra- 


<!■    ... 


310 


grances,  and  the  song  of  fifty  nightingales.  It  was  for 
him  a  moment  of  deep  and  harassing  emotion  and  keen 
anxiety.  He  leaned  over  the  window-sill  and  looked  out 
on  the  starlit  heavens,  and  whispered  aloud  the  little 
speech  he  had  prepared  : 

"Martia,  I  have  done  my  best.  I  would  make  any 
sacrifice  to  obey  you,  but  I  cannot  give  up  my  freedom 
to  love  the  woman  that  attracts  me  as  I  have  never  been 
attracted  before.  I  would  sooner  live  a  poor  and  unsuc- 
cessful struggler  in  the  art  I  have  chosen,  with  her  to 
help  me  live,  than  be  the  mightiest  man  in  England 
without  her — even  with  Julia,  whom  I  admire  as  much, 
and  even  more ! 

^'  One  can^t  help  these  things.  They  may  be  fancies, 
and  one  may  live  to  repent  them ;  but  while  they  last 
they  are  imperious,  not  to  be  resisted.  It's  an  instinct, 
I  suppose  ;  perhaps  even  a  form  of  insanity !  But  I  love 
Leah's  little-finger  nail  better  than  Julia's  lovely  face 
and  splendid  body  and  all  her  thousands. 

"  Besides,  I  Avill  not  drag  Julia  down  from  her  high 
position  in  the  world's  eye,  even  for  a  day,  nor  owe  any- 
thing to  either  man  or  woman  except  love  and  fidelity  I 
It  grieves  me  deeply  to  disappoint  you,  though  I  cannot 
understand  your  motives.  If  you  love  me  as  you  say  you 
do,  you  ought  to  think  of  my  happiness  and  honor  before 
my  worldly  success  and  prosperity,  about  which  I  don't 
care  a  button,  except  for  Leah's  sake. 

^"^  Besides,  I  know  myself  better  than  you  know  me. 
I'm  not  one  of  those  hard,  strong,  stern,  purposeful, 
Napoleonic  men,  with  wills  of  iron,  that  clever,  ambi- 
tious women  conceive  great  passions  for ! 

"  I'm  only  a  '  funny  man ' — a  gringalet-jocrisse  !  And 
now  that  I'm  quite  grown  up,  and  all  my  little  funni- 
ments  are  over,  I'm  only  fit  to  sit  and  paint,  with  my  one 


"'MAKTIA,  I  HAVE  DONE  HY  BE8T 


312 


eye,  in  my  little  corner,  with  a  contented  little  wife,  who 
won't  want  me  to  do  great  things  and  astonish  the  world. 
There's  no  place  like  home  ;  faire  la  popotte  ensemble  au 
coin  du  feu — c'est  le  ciel ! 

"  And  ji  I'm  half  as  clever  as  yon  say,  it  '11  all  come 
out  in  my  painting,  and  I  shall  be  rich  and  famous,  and 
all  off  my  own  bat.  I'd  sooner  l)e  Sir  Edwin  Landseer 
than  Sir  Ilobert  Peel,  or  Pam,  or  Dizzy ! 

''Even  to  retain  your  love  and  protectijn  and  interest 
in  me,  which  I  value  almost  as  much  as  I  value  life  it- 
self, I  can't  do  as  you  wish.  Don't  desert  me,  Martia.  I 
may  be  able  to  make  it  all  u^)  to  you  some  day ;  after  all, 
you  can't  foresee  and  command  the  future,  nor  can  I.  It 
wouldn't  be  worth  living  for  if  we  could  I  It  would  all 
be  discounted  in  advance  ! 

"  I  may  yet  succeed  in  leading  a  useful,  happy  life ; 
and  that  should  be  enough  for  you  if  it's  enough  for  me, 
since  I  am  your  beloved,  and  as  you  love  me  as  your  son. 
.  .  .  Anyhow,  my  mind  is  made  up  for  good  and  all, 
and  .  .  ." 

Here  the  sensation  of  the  north  suddenly  left  him,  and 
he  went  to  his  bed  with  the  sense  of  bereavement  that 
had  punished  hi  ii  all  the  preceding  week :  desperately 
sad,  all  but  heart-broken,  and  feeling  almost  like  a  cul- 
prit, although  his  conscience,  whatever  that  was  worth, 
was  thoroughly  at  ease,  and  his  intent  inflexible. 

A  day  or  two  after  this  he  must  have  received  a  note 
from  Julia,  making  an  appointment  to  meet  him  at  the 
Ausstellung,  in  the  Alice  Strasse,  a  pretty  little  picture- 
gallery,  since  he  was  seen  there  sitting  in  deep  conversa- 
tion with  Miss  Koyce  in  a  corner,  and  both  seeming  much 
moved;  neither  the  Admiral  nor  Lady  Jane  was  with 
them,  and  there  was  some  gossip  about  it  in  the  British 
colony  both  in  Diisseldorf  and  Biffrath. 


313 


Barty,  wlio  of  late  years  lias  talked  to  mo  so  much, 
and  with  such  affectionate  admiration,  of  ''Julia  Count- 
ess," as  he  called  her,  never  happened  to  have  mentioned 
this  interview;  he  was  very  reticent  about  his  love-mak- 
ings, especially  about  any  love  that  was  made  to  him. 

I  made  so  bold  as  to  write  to  Julia,  Lady  Ironsides, 
and  ask  her  if  it  were  true  they  had  met  like  this,  and 
if  I  might  print  her  answer,  and  received  almost  by  re- 
turn of  post  the  following  kind  and  characteristic  letter  : 


"96  Giu)svE.NOR  Squaue. 

"Dear  Sir  Rorert, — You're  quite  right;  I  did  meet 
him,  and  I've  no  objection  whatever  to  telling  you  how 
it  all  happened — and  you  may  do  as  you  like. 

"It  happened  just  like  this  (you  must  remember  that 
I  was  only  just  out,  and  had  always  had  my  own  way  in 
everything). 

"Mamma  and  I  and  Uncle  James  (the  Admiral)  and 
Freddy  Ileece  (Ironsides,  you  know)  went  to  the  Musik- 
fest  in  Diisseldorf.  Barty  was  singing  in  the  chorus.  I 
saw  him  opening  and  shutting  his  mouth  and  could  al- 
most fancy  I  heard  him,  poor  dear  boy. 

"Leah  Gibson,  as  she  was  then,  sat  near  to  me,  with 
her  mother  and  your  sister.  Leah  Gibson  looked  lilce — 
well,  you  know  what  she  looked  like  in  those  days.  By- 
tlie-way,  I  can't  make  out  how  it  is  you  weren't  over 
head  and  ears  in  love  with  her  yourself  !  I  thought  her 
the  loveliest  girl  I  had  ever  seen,  and  felt  very  unha})))y. 

"  We  slept  at  the  hotel  that  night,  and  on  the  way 
back  to  Riffrath  next  morning  Freddy  Recce  proposed 
to  me. 

"I  told  him  I  couldn't  marry  him — l)ut  that  I  loved 
him  as  a  sister,  and  all  that ;  I  really  was  very  fond  of 
him  indeed,  but  I  didn't  want  to  marry  him ;  I  wanted 


314 


to  marry  Barty,  in  fact ;  and  make  him  rich  and  famous, 
as  I  felt  sure  he  would  be  some  day,  whether  I  married 
him  or  not. 

"  But  there  was  that  lovely  Leah  Gibson,  the  furrier's 
daughter  ! 

*' When  we  got  home  to  Kiffrath  mamma  found  she'd 
got  a  cold,  and  had  a  fancy  for  a  French  thing  called  a 
'  loch  ';  I  think  her  cold  was  suddenly  brought  on  by  my 
refusing  poor  Freddy's  offer  ! 

'*'  I  went  with  G-rissel,  the  maid  (who  knew  about  lochs), 
to  the  Riffrath  chemist's,  but  he  didn't  even  know  what 
we  meant — so  I  told  mamma  I  would  go  and  get  a  loch  in 
Dusseldorf  next  day  if  she  liked,  with  Uncle  James. 
Mamma  was  only  too  delighted,  for  next  day  was  Mr. 
Josselin's  day  for  coming  to  Kiffrath  ;  but  he  didn't,  for 
I  wrote  to  him  to  meet  me  at  twelve  at  a  little  picture- 
gallery  I  knew  of  in  the  Allee  Strasse — as  I  wanted  to  have 
a  talk  with  him. 

"  Uncle  James  had  caught  a  cold  too,  so  I  went  with 
Grissel ;  and  found  a  chemist  who'd  been  in  France,  and 
knew  what  a  loch  v/as  and  made  one  for  me  ;  and  then  I 
went  to  the  gallery,  and  there  was  poor  Barty  sitting  on  a 
crimson  velvet  couch,  under  a  picture  of  Milton  dictat- 
i'lg  Paradise  Lost  to  his  daughters  (1  bought  it  afterwards, 
and  I've  got  it  now). 

"  We  said  how  d'ye  do,  and  sat  on  the  couch  together, 
and  I  felt  dreadfully  nervous  and  ashamed. 

*'  Then  I  said  : 

** '  You  must  think  me  very  odd,  ^^r.  Josselin,  to  ask 
you  to  meet  me  like  this  !' 

*"1  think  it's  a  very  great  honor  !'  ho  said;  *I  only 
wisii  I  deserved  it.' 

"And  then  lie  said  nothing  for  quite  five  minutes,  anci 
I  think  he  felt  us  uncomfortable  as  I  did, 


5   W 


SS  o 


> 


^1  J^^^^^'l 


316 


"  '  Captain  Grraham-Reece  has  asked  me  to  be  his  wife, 
and  I  refused/  I  said. 

"  *Why  did  you  refuse  ?  He's  one  of  the  best  fellows 
I've  ever  met/  said  Barty. 

"  '  He's  to  be  so  rich,  and  so  am  1/  I  said. 

"  No  answer. 

"  *  It  would  be  right  for  me  to  marry  ii  poor  man — 
man  Avith  brains  and  no  money,  you  know,  and  help  him 
to  make  his  way.' 

"  '  Reece  has  plenty  of  l)rains  too,'  said  Barty. 

''*0h,  Mr.  Josselin — don't  misunderstand  me' — and 
then  I  began  to  stammer  jind  look  foolish. 

*'  *  Miss  Royce — I've  only  got  £15  in  the  world,  and 
with  that  I  mean  to  go  to  London  and  be  an  artist ;  and 
comfort  myself  during  the  struggle  by  the  delightful  re- 
membrance of  Riffratli  and  Reece  and  yourself — and  the 
happy  hope  of  meeting  you  both  again  some  day,  when  I 
sliall  no  longer  be  the  poor  devil  I  am  now,  and  am  quite 
content  to  be  !  And  wlien  vou  and  he  are  among  tlie 
great  of  the  earth,  if  you  will  give  me  each  a  commission 
to  paint  your  portraits  I  will  do  my  very  best !'  (and  hv 
smiled  his  irresistible  smile).  'You  will  be  kind  I  ir>i 
sure,  to  Mr.  Nobody  of  Kowhere,  the  famous  portraii- 
painter — who  doesn't  oven  bear  his  father's  name — as  he 
has  no  right  to  it.' 

**I  could  have  flung  my  arms  round  his  neck  and 
kissed  him  !     AVhat  did  /care  about  his  father's  name  ? 

'* '  Will  you  think  me  dreadfully  bold  and  indiscreet, 
Mr.  .Josselin.  if  I — if  I — '     (I  stammered  fearfully.) 

'* '  If  you  what.  Miss  Royce  ?' 

"'If  I— if  I  ask  vou  if  vou — if  you — think  Miss  Gib- 
son  the  most  beautiful  girl  you  ever  saw  ?' 

*' '  Ilonestly,  I  think  you  the  most  beautiful  girl  I  ever 


saw 


!' 


317 


" '  Oh,  that's  tionsense,  Mr.  Josselin,  althougli  I  ought 
to  have  known  you  would  say  that !  I'm  not  fit  to  tie 
her  slioes.  What  I  mean  is — a — a — oh  !  forgive  me — 
are  you  very  fond  of  her,  as  Fm  sure  slie  deserves,  you 
know  ?' 

"  '  Oh  yes,  Miss  Royce,  very  fond  of  her  indeed  ;  she's 
poor,  she's  of  no  family,  she's  Miss  Nobody  of  Nowiiere, 
you  know ;  she's  all  that  I  am,  except  that  she  has  a 
right  to  her  honest  father's  name — ' 

'*  *  Does  she  I'uoiu  you're  very  fond  of  her  ?' 
*' '  No  ;  but  I  hope  to  tell  her  so  some  day.' ' 
"  Then  we  were  silent,  and  I  felt  very  red,  and  very 
much  inclined  to  cry,  but  I   managed   to  keep  in  my 
tears. 

'^  Then  I  got  up,  and  so  did  he — and  he  made  some 
joke  about  Grissel  and  the  loch-bottle  ;  and  we  both 
laughed  quite  naturally  and  looked  at  the  i)ictures,  and 
he  told  me  he  was  going  back  to  London  with  the  (Jib- 
sons  that  very  week,  and  thanked  mo  warmly  for  my 
kind  interest  in  him,  and  assured  me  he  thoroughly 
deserved  it — and  talked  so  funnily  and  so  nicely  that  I 
quite  forgave  myself.  I  really  don't  think  he  guessed 
for  one  moment  what  I  had  been  driving  at  all  the  while  ; 
I  got  back  all  my  self-respect ;  I  felt  so  grateful  to  iiim 
that  i  was  fonder  of  him  than  ever,  though  no  longer 
so  idiotically  in  love.  lie  was  not  for  me.  lie  had 
somehow  laughed  me  into  love  with  him,  and  laughed 
me  out  of  it. 

*' Then  I  bade  him  good-bye,  and  squeezed  his  haiul 
with  all  my  heart,  and  told  him  how  much  I  should  like 
some  day  to  meet  Miss  Gibson  and  be  her  friend  if  she 
would  let  mo. 

"  Then  I  went  back  to  Kiffrath  and  took  mumma  her 
loch  ;  but  she  no  longer  wanted  it,  for  I  told  her  I  had 


318 


changed  my  mind  about  Freddy,  and  that  cured  her  like 
magic  ;  and  she  kissed  me  on  both  cheeks  and  called  me 
her  dear,  darling,  divine  Julia.     Poor,  sweet  mamma  ! 

**  I  had  given  her  many  a  bad  quarter  of  an  hour,  but 
this  good  moment  made  up  for  them  all. 

''  She  was  eighty-two  last  birthday,  and  can  still  read 
Josselin's  works  in  the  cheap  edition  without  spectacles 
— thanks,  no  doubt,  to  the  famous  Doctor  Hasenclever  ! 
She  reads  nothing  else  ! 

"Et  voila  comment  (ja  s'est  passe. 

"It's  Ithat  '11  be  the  proud  woman  when  I  read  this 
letter,  printed,  in  your  life  of  Josselin. 

"Yours  sincerely, 

"Julia  Ironsides. 

"  P.  S. — I've  actually  just  told  mamma — and  I'm  still 
her  dear,  darling,  divine  Julia  !" 

Charming  as  were  Barty's  remembrances  of  Diisseldorf, 
the  most  charming  of  all  was  his  remembrance  of  going 
aboard  the  little  steamboat  bound  for  Rotterdam,  orle 
night  at  the  end  of  May,  with  old  Mrs.  Bletchley,  Mrs. 
Gibson  and  her  daughter,  and  my  sister  Ida. 

The  little  boat  was  crowded ;  the  ladies  found  what 
accommodation  they  could  in  what  served  for  a  ladies' 
cabin,  and  expostulated  and  bribed  their  best ;  fort- 
unately for  them,  no  doubt,  there  were  no  English  on 
board  to  bribe  against  them. 

Barty  spent  the  night  on  deck,  supine,  with  a  carpet- 
bag for  a  pillow  ;  we  will  take  the  full  moon  for  granted. 
From  Diisseldorf  to  Rotterdam  there  is  little  to  see  on 
either  side  of  a  Rhine  steamboat,  except  the  Rhine — 
especially  at  night. 

Next  day,  after  breakfast,  he  made  the  ladies  as  com- 
fortable as  ho  could  on  the  after-deck,  and  read  to  them 


"'does  PllE   A'.VOir  YOU'llE  VKRY   FOND  OF   HER?' 


com- 
tlieni 


330 


from  Maud,  from  the  Idylls  of  the  King,  from  the  Mill  on 
the  Floss.  Then,  windmills  came  into  sight — Dutch  wind- 
mills ;  then  Rotterdam,  almost  too  soon.  They  went  to 
the  big  hotel  on  the  Boompjes  and  fed,  and  then  explored 
Rotterdam,  and  found  it  a  most  delightful  city. 

Next  day  they  got  on  board  the  steamboat  bound  for 
St.  Katharine's  wharf  ;  the  wind  had  freshened  and  they 
soon  separated,  and  met  at  breakfast  next  morning  in 
the  Thames. 

Barty  declared  he  smelt  Great  Britain  as  distinctly  as 
one  can  smell  a  Scotch  haggis,  or  a  Welsh  rabbit,  or  an 
Irish  stew,  and  the  old  familiar  smell  made  him  glad. 
However  little  you  may  be  English,  if  you  are  English 
at  all  you  are  more  English  than  anything  else,  et  plus 
roycdiste  que  h  Hoi ! 

According  to  Heine,  an  Englishman  loves  liberty  as  a 
good  husband  loves  his  wife  ;  that  is  also  how  he  loves 
the  land  of  his  birth  ;  at  all  events,  England  has  a  kind 
of  wifely  embrace  for  the  home-coming  Briton,  especially 
if  he  comes  home  by  the  Thames. 

It  is  not  unexpected,  nor  madly  exciting,  perhaps ; 
but  it  is  singularly  warm  and  sweet  if  the  conjugal  re- 
lations have  not  been  strained  in  the  meanwhile.  And 
as  the  Thames  narrows  itself,  the  closer,  the  more  ge- 
nial, the  more  grateful  and  comforting  this  long- an- 
ticipated and  tenderly  intimate  uxorious  dalliance  seems 
to  grow. 

Barty  felt  very  happy  as  he  stood  leaning  over  the  bul- 
warks in  the  sunshiiu\,  between  Ida  and  Leah,  and  looked 
at  Rothorhithe,  and  promised  himself  he  would  paint  it 
some  day,  and  even  sell  the  picture  I 

Then  he  nuide  himself  so  pleasant  to  the  custom-house 
officers  that  they  all  but  forgot  to  examine  the  Gibson 
luggage. 


321 


Was  I  delighted  to  grasp  his  hand  at  St.  Katharine^s 
wharf,  after  so  many  months  ?     Ah  I  .  .  . 

Mr.  Gibson  was  there,  funny  as  ever,  and  the  Gibsons 
went  home  with  liim  to  Conduit  Street  in  a  hired  Hy. 
Alas  I  poor  Mrs.  Gibson's  home-coming  was  the  saddest 
part  for  her  of  the  delightful  little  journey. 

And  Barty  and  Ida  and  1  went  our  own  way  in  a 
four-wheeler  to  eat  the  fatted  calf  in  lirunswick  Square, 
washed  down  with  I  will  not  say  what  vintage.  There 
were  so  many  available  from  all  the  wine-growing  lands  of 
Europe  that  I've  forgotten  which  was  chosen  to  celebrate 
the  wanderers'  return  ! 

Let  us  say  Romane-Conti,  which  is  the  "  cru  "  that 
Barty  loved  best. 


ii 


Next  morning  Barty  left  us  early,  with  a  portfolio  of 
sketches  under  his  arm,  and  his  heart  full  of  sanguine 
expectation,  and  spent  the  day  in  Fleet  Street,  or  there- 
abouts, calling  on  publishers  of  illustrated  books  and 
periodicals,  and  came  back  to  us  at  dinner-time  very 
fagged,  and  with  a  long  and  piteous  but  very  droll  story 
of  his  ignominious  non-success  :  his  weary  waitings  in 
dull,  dingy,  little  business  back  rooms,  the  patronizing 
and  snubbing  he  and  his  works  had  met  with,  the  sense 
that  he  had  everything  to  learn— he,  who  thought  he 
was  going  to  take  the  publishing  world  by  storm. 

Next  day  it  was  just  the  same,  and  the  day  after,  and 
the  day  after  that — every  day  of  the  week  he  spent  under 
our  roof. 

Then  he  insisted  on  leaving  us,  and  took  for  himself 
a  room  in  Newman  Street — a  studio  by  day,  a  bedroom 
by  night,  a  pleasant  smoking-room  at  all  hours,  and 
very  soon  a  i)lace  of  rendezvous  for  all  sorts  and  con- 
ditions   of   jolly    fellows,   old   friends    and   new,   from 

21 


323 


Gnardsmen  to  young  stars  of  the  art  world,  mostly  idle 
apprentices. 

Gradually  boxing-gloves  crept  in,  and  foils  and  masks, 
and  the  faithful  Snowdrop  (whose  condition  three  or 
four  attacks  of  delirium  tremens  during  Barty's  exile 
had  not  improved). 

And  fellows  who  sang,  and  told  good  stories,  and  imi- 
tated popular  actors — all  as  it  used  to  be  in  the  good  old 
days  of  St.  James's  Street. 

But  Barty  was  changed  all  the  same.  These  amuse- 
ments were  no  longer  the  serious  business  of  life  for  him. 
In  the  midst  of  all  the  racket  he  would  sit  at  his  small 
easel  and  work.  He  declared  he  couldn't  find  inspira- 
tion in  silence  and  solitude,  and,  bereft  of  Martia,  he 
could  not  bear  to  be  alone. 

Then  he  looked  up  other  old  friends,  and  left  cards 
and  got  invitations  to  dinners  and  drums.  One  of  his 
first  visits  was  to  his  old  tailor  in  Jermyn  Street,  to  whom 
he  still  owed  money,  and  who  welcomed  him  with  open 
arms — almost  hugged  him — aiul  made  him  two  or  three 
beautiful  suits  ;  I  believe  he  would  have  dressed  Barty 
for  nothing,  as  a  mere  advertisement.  At  all  events,  he 
wouldn't  hear  of  payment  "for  many  years  to  come! 
The  finest  figure  in  the  whole  Household  Brigade  I — the 
idea  !" 

Soon  Barty  got  a  few  sketches  into  obscure  illustrated 
papers,  and  thought  his  fortune  was  made.  The  first 
was  a  little  sketch  in  the  manner  of  John  Leech,  which 
he  took  to  the  British  Lion,  just  started  as  a  rival  to 
Punch.  The  British  Lion  died  before  the  sketch  ap- 
peared, but  lie  got  a  guinea  for  it,  and  bought  a  beauti- 
ful volume  of  Tennyson,  illustrated  by  Millais,  Ilolman 
Hunt,  Rossetti,  and  others,  and  made  a  sketch  on  the  fly- 
leaf of  a  lovely  female  with  black  hair  and  black  eyes, 


323 


and  gave  it  to  Leah  Gibson.  It  was  his  old  female  face 
of  ten  years  ago  ;  yet,  strange  to  say,  the  very  image  of 
Leah  herself  (as  it  had  once  been  that  of  his  mother). 

The  great  happiness  of  his  life  just  then  was  to  go  to 
the  opera  with  Mrs.  Gibson  and  Leah  and  Mr.  Babbage 
(the  family  friend),  who  conld  get  a  box  whenever  he 
liked,  and  then  to  sup  with  them  afterwards  in  Conduit 
Street,  over  the  Emporium  of  the  '*  Universal  Fur  Com- 
pany," and  to  imitate  Signor  Giuglini  for  the  delectation 
of  Mr.  Gibson,  whose  fondness  for  Barty  soon  grew  into 
absolute  worship ! 

And  Leah,  so  reserved  and  self-contained  in  general 
company,  would  laugh  till  the  tears  ran  down  her 
cheeks;  and  the  music  of  her  laughter,  which  was  deep 
and  low,  rang  more  agreeably  to  Barty's  ear  than  even 
the  ravishing  strains  of  Adelina  Patti — the  last  of  the 
great  prime  donne  of  our  time,  I  think  —  whose  voice 
still  stirs  me  to  the  depths,  with  vague  remendjrance  of 
fresh  girlish  innocence  turned  into  sound. 

Long  life  to  her  and  to  her  voice  !  Lovely  voices 
should  never  fade,  nor  pretty  faces  either ! 

Sometimes  I  replaced  Mr.  Babbage  and  escorted  Mrs. 
Gibson  to  the  opera,  leaving  Leah  to  Barty ;  for  on  fine 
nights  we  walked  there,  and  the  ladies  took  olf  their 
bonnets  and  shawls  in  the  box,  which  was  generally  on 
the  upper  tier,  and  we  looked  down  on  Scatcherd  and 
my  mother  and  sister  in  the  stalls.  Then  back  to 
Conduit  Street  to  supper.  It  was  easy  with  half  an  eye 
to  see  the  way  things  were  going.  I  can't  say  I  liked  it. 
No  man  would,  I  suppose.  But  I  reconciled  myself  to 
the  inevitable,  and  boi'e  up  like  a  stoic. 

L'amitie  est  I'amour  sans  ailes  I  A  happy  intimate 
friendship,  a  wingless  love  that  has  lasted  more  than 
thirty  years  without  a  break,  is  no  bad  substitute  for 


824 


tumultuous  passions  that  have  missed  their  mark !  I 
have  been  as  close  a  friend  to  Barty's  wife  as  to  Barty 
himself,  and  all  the  happiness  I  have  ever  known  has 
come  from  them  and  theirs. 

Walking  home,  poor  Mrs.  Gibson  would  confide  to  me 
her  woes  and  anxieties,  and  wail  over  the  past  glories  of 
Tavistock  Square  and  all  the  nice  peojDle  who  lived 
there,  and  in  Kussell  Square  and  Bedford  Street  and 
(lower  Street,  many  of  whom  had  given  up  calling  on 
her  now  that  she  lived  over  a  shop.  Not  all  the  liveli- 
ness of  ]5ond  Street  and  Regent  Street  combined  (which 
Conduit  Street  so  broadly  and  genially  connected  with 
each  other)  could  compensate  her  for  the  lost  gentility, 
the  aristocratic  dulness  and  quiet  and  repose,  "almost 
equal  to  that  of  a  West  End  square." 

Then  she  believed  that  business  was  not  going  on  well, 
since  Mr.  Gibson  talked  of  giving  up  his  Cheapside 
establishment ;  he  said  it  was  too  much  for  him  to  look 
after.  But  he  had  lost  much  of  his  fun,  and  seemed 
harassed  and  thin,  and  muttered  in  his  sleep  ;  and  the 
poor  woman  was  full  of  forebodings,  some  of  which  were 
to  be  justified  by  the  events  that  followed. 

About  this  time  Leah,  who  had  forebodings  too,  took 
it  into  her  head  to  attend  a  class  for  book-keei)ing,  and 
in  a  short  time  thoroughly  mastered  the  science  in  all 
its  details.  Fm  afraid  she  was  better  at  this  kind  of 
work  than  at  either  drawing  or  music,  both  of  which  she 
had  been  so  perseveringly  taught.  She  could  read  off 
any  music  at  sight  quite  glibly  and  easily,  it  is  true — 
the  result  of  hard  ploddii.g — but  could  never  play  to 
give  real  pleasure,  and  she  gave  it. up.  And  with  sing- 
ing it  was  the  same ;  her  voice  was  excellent  and  had 
been  well  trained,  but  when  she  heard  the  untaught 
Barty  she  felt  she  was  no  singer,  and  never  would  be. 


325 


and  left  off  trying.  Yet  nobody  jjot  more  pleasure  out 
of  the  singing  of  others — esjK'cially  Biirty's  imd  that  of 
young  Mr.  Santley,  who  was  her  pet  and  darling,  and 
whom  she  far  preferred  to  that  sweetest  and  suavest  of 
tenors,  Giuglini,  about  whom  we  all  went  mad.  I  agreed 
with  her.  Giuglini's  voice  was  like  green  chartreuse  in 
a  liqueur-glass  ;  Santley's  like  a  bumper  of  the  very  best 
burgundy  that  ever  was  I  Oh  that  high  (I  !  Romane- 
Conti,  again;  and  in  a  quart-pot  I  En  veux-tu?  en 
voiljl ! 

And  as  for  her  drawing,  it  was  as  that  of  all  intelli- 
gent young  ladies  who  have  been  well  tauglit,  but  have 
no  original  talent  whatever ;  nor  did*  she  derive  any 
special  pleasure  from  the  masterpieces  in  tlie  National 
Gallery  ;  the  Royal  Academy  was  far  more  to  lier  taste ; 
and  to  mine,  I  frankly  admit ;  and,  I  fear,  to  Barty's 
taste  also,  in  those  days.  Enough  of  the  Guardsman 
still  remained  in  him  to  quite  unfit  his  brain  and  ear 
and  eye  for  what  was  best  in  literature  and  art.  He  was 
mildly  fond  of  the  '*  Bacchus  and  Ariadne,"  and  Rem- 
brandt's portrait  of  himself,  and  a  few  others ;  as  he  was 
of  the  works  of  Shakespeare  and  Milton.  But  Mantegna 
and  Botticelli  and  Signorelli  made  him  sad,  and  almost 
morose. 

The  only  great  things  he  genuinely  loved  and  revered 
were  the  Elgin  Marbles.  He  was  constantly  sketching 
them.  And  I  am  told  that  they  have  had  great  influence 
on  his  work  and  that  he  owes  much  to  them.  I  have 
grown  to  admire  them  immensely  myself  in  consequence, 
though  I  used  to  find  that  part  of  the  liritisli  Museum  a 
rather  dreary  lounge  in  the  days  when  Barty  used  to 
draw  there. 

I  am  the  proud  possessor  of  a  Velasquez,  two  Titians, 
and  a  Rembrandt ;  but,  as  a  rule,  I  like  to  encourage 


326 


the  art  of  my  own  time  and  country  and  that  of  modern 
France. 

And  I  suppose  there's  liardly  a  great  painter  living, 
or  recently  dead,  some  of  whose  work  is  not  represented 
on  my  walls,  either  in  London,  Paris,  or  Scotland  ;  or  at 
Marsfield,  where  so  much  of  my  time  is  spent;  although 
the  house  is  not  mine,  it's  my  real  home ;  and  thither  I 
have  always  been  allowed  to  send  my  best  pictures,  and 
my  best  bric-a-brac,  my  favorite  horses  and  dogs,  and  the 
oldest  and  choicest  liquors  that  were  ever  stored  in  the 
cellars  of  Vougeot-Conti  &  Co.  Old  bachelor  friends 
have  their  privileges,  and  Uncle  Bob  has  known  how  to 
make  himself  at  home  in  Marsfield. 

Barty  soon  got  better  off,  and  moved  intc  *^er  lodg- 
ings in  Berners  Street ;  a  sitting-room  and  bedroom  at 
No.  12n,  which  has  now  disappeared. 

And  there  he  worked  all  day,  without  haste  and  with- 
out rest,  and  at  last  in  solitude  ;  and  found  he  could 
work  twice  as  well  with  no  companion  but  his  pipe  and 
his  lay  figure,  from  which  he  made  most  elaborate  studies 
of  drapery,  in  pen  and  ink;  first  in  the  manner  of  Sandys 
and  Albert  Dtirer  !  later  in  the  manner  of  Millais,  Walk- 
er, and  Keene. 

Also  he  acquired  the  art  of  using  the  living  model  for 
his  little  illustrations.  It  had  become  the  fashion  ;  a 
new  school  had  been  founded  with  0)ice  a  Week  and  the 
Cornhill  iWagnzine,  it  seems ;  besides  those  already  named, 
there  were  Lawless,  du  Maurier,  Poynter,  not  to  mention 
Holman  Hunt  and  F.  Leighfcon  ;  and  a  host  of  new 
draughtsmen,  most  industrious  apprentices,  whose  talk 
and  example  soon  weaned  Barty  from  a  mixed  and  some- 
what rowdy  crew. 

And  all  became  more  or  less  friends  of  his  ;  a  very 
good   thing,  for   they  were  admirable  in  industry  and 


I 


327 


talent,  thorough  artists  and  very  good  fellows  all  round. 
Need  I  say  thoy  have  all  risen  to  fame  and  fortune — as 
becomes  poetical  justice  ? 

He  also  kept  in  touch  with  his  old  brother  officers, 
and  that  was  a  good  thing  too. 

But  there  were  others  he  got  to  know,  rickety,  un- 
wholesome geniuses,  whose  genius  (such  as  it  was)  had 
allied  itself  to  madness  ;  and  who  were  just  as  conceited 
about  the  madness  as  about  the  genius,  and  took  more 
pains  to  cultivate  it.  It  brought  them  a  quicker  kudos, 
and  was  so  much  more  visible  to  the  naked  eye. 

At  first  Barty  was  fascinated  by  the  madness,  and 
took  the  genius  on  tru  i,  I  suppose.  They  made  much 
of  him,  painted  him,  wrote  musl^-^  and  verses  about  i»im, 
raved  about  his  Greekness,  his  beauty,  his  yellow  hair, 
and  his  voice  and  what  not,  as  if  he  had  been  a  woman. 
He  even  stood  thai;,  he  admired  them  so!  or  rather,  this 
genius  of  theirs. 

He  introduced  me  to  this  little  clique,  who  called 
themselves  a  school,  and  each  other  "master":  *' the 
neo-priapists,"  or  something  of  that  sort,  and  they  wor- 
shipped the  tuberose. 

They  disliked  me  at  sight,  and  I  them,  and  we  did  not 
dissemble  I 

Like  Barty,  I  am  fond  of  men's  society  ;  but  at  least  I 
like  them  to  be  uumistakably  men  of  my  own  sex,  manly 
men,  and  clean  ;  not  little  misshapen  troglodytes  with 
foul  minds  and  perverted  passioiis,  or  self-advertising 
little  mountebanks  with  enlarged  and  diseased  vanities  ; 
creatures  who  would  stand  in  a  pillory  sooner  than  not  bo 
stared  at  or  talked  about  at  all. 

Whatever  their  genius  might  be,  it  almost  made  me 
sick — it  almost  made  me  kick,  to  see  the  humorous  and 
masculine   Barty  prostrate  in  admiration   before   these 


328 


■i    ■ 


inspired  epicenes,  these  gifted  epileptoids,  these  anseniic 
little  self-satisfied  nincompoops,  whose  proper  place,  it 
seemed  to  me,  was  either  P^arlswood,  or  Cohiey  Hatch, 
or  Broadmoor.  That  is,  if  their  madness  was  genuine, 
whirh  I  doubt.  lie  and  I  had  many  a  quarrel  about 
them,  till  he  found  them  out  and  cut  them  for  good  and 
all — a  great  relief  to  me ;  for  one  got  a  bad  name  by 
being  friends  with  such  nondescripts. 

*'  I)is-moi  qui  tu  hantes,  je  te  dirai  ce  que  tu  es  I" 
Need  I  say  they  all  died  long  ago,  without  leaving  the 
ghost  of  a  name  ? — and  nobody  cared.  Poetical  justice 
again !  How  encouraging  it  is  to  think  there  are  no 
such  people  now,  and  that  the  breed  has  been  thoroughly 
stamped  out  !* 

Barty  never  succeeded  as  an  illustrator  on  wood,  lie 
got  into  a  way  of  doing  very  slight  sketches  of  pretty 
people  in  fancy  dress  and  coloring  them  lightly,  and  sold 
them  at  a  shop  in  the  Strand,  now  no  more.  Then  he 
made  up  little  stories,  which  he  illustrated  himself,  some- 
thing like  the  picture-books  of  the  later  Caldecott,  and 
I  found  him  a  publisher,  and  he  was  soon  able  to  put 
aside  a  few  pounds  and  pay  his  debts. 


*  Editor. 


part  lEiQbtb 


"And  now  I  see  with  eyes  serene 
The  very  pulse  of  the  machine  ; 
A  being  breathing  thoughtful  breath, 
A  traveller  betwixt  life  and  deatli ; 
The  reason  firm,  the  temperate  will, 
Endurance,  foresight,  strengtii,  and  skill ; 
A  perfect  woman,  nobly  planned 
To  warn  and  comfort  and  command  ; 
And  yet  a  spirit  too  and  bright 
With  something  of  an  angel-light." 

— WORDSWOKTII. 

Whex  Barty  had  been  six  months  in  England,  poor 
Mr.  Gibson's  affairs  went  suddenly  smash.  My  father 
saved  him  from  absoliite  bankruptcy,  and  there  was 
lamentation  and  wailing  for  a  month  or  so  in  Conduit 
Street;  but  things  were  so  mannged  that  Mr.  Olbson 
was  able  to  l^eep  on  the  "  West  End  firm,"'  and  make  with 
it  a  new  start. 

lie  had  long  been  complaining  of  his  cashier,  and  had 
to  dismiss  him  and  look  out  for  another;  but  here  his 
daughter  came  in  aval  insisted  on  being  cashier  herself — 
(to  her  mother's  horror). 

So  she  took  her  place  at  a  railcd-in  desk  at  the  ba(!k  of 
the  shop,  and  was  not  only  cashier  and  bookkeeper,  but 
overseer  of  all  things  in  general,  and  was  not  above  see- 
ing any  exacting  and  importunate  customer  whom  the 
shopmen  couldn't  manage. 

Sho  actually  liked  her  work,  and  declared   she  had 


330 


f',^ 


found  her  real  vocation,  anci  quite  ceased  to  regret  Tav- 
istock Square. 

Her  authority  in  the  emporium  was  even  greater  than 
her  father's,  who  w.is  too  fond  of  being  funny.  She 
awed  the  shopmen  into  a  kind  of  affectionate  servility, 
and  they  were  prostrate  as  before  a  goddess,  in  spite  of 
her  never-failing  politeness  to  them. 

Customers  soon  got  into  a  way  of  asking  to  see  Miss 
Gibson,  especially  when  they  were  accompanied  by  hus- 
bands or  brothers  or  male  friends;  and  Miss  Gibson  soon 
found  she  sold  better  than  any  shopman,  and  became  one 
of  the  notables  in  the  quarter. 

All  Mr.  Gibson's  fun  came  back,  and  he  was  as  proud 
of  his  daughter  as  if  she'd  been  proposed  to  by  an  earl. 
But  Mrs.  (libson  couldn't  help  shedding  tears  over  Leah's 
loss  of  caste — Leah,  on  whose  beauty  and  good  breeding 
she  had  founded  such  hopes  :  it  is  but  fair  to  add  that 
she  was  most  anxious  to  keep  the  books  herself,  so  that 
her  daughter  might  b3  spared  this  degradation  ;  for  no 
*' gentleman,"  she  felt  sure,  would  ever  propose  to  her 
daughter  now. 

But  she  was  mistaken. 

One  night  Barty  and  I  dined  at  a  little  cagmag  he 
used  to  fref[rent,  where  he  fared  well — so  he  said — for  a 
shilling,  which  Included  a  glass  of  stout.  Jt  was  a  dis- 
gusting little  place,  but  he  liked  it,  anil  therefore  so 
did  L 

Then  we  called  for  Mrs.  Gibson  and  Leah,  and  took 
them  to  the  Princess's  to  see  Fechter  in  Hiiy  Jilas,  and 
escorted  them  home,  and  had  sup})er  with  them,  a  very 
good  supper — notiiing  ever  interfered  with  the  luxurious- 
ly hospitable  instincts  of  the  (J-ibsons — and  a  very  merry 
one.      Barty  imitated  Fechter  to  the  life. 

"  I  'uv  zo  garrb  of  a  lacquais — you  'av  zo  solo  of  ivawn  !" 


t. 

;.J!i: 


^•■ 


331 


This  he  said  to  Mr.  Gibson,  who  was  in  fits  of  delight. 
Mr.  Gibson  had  Just  come  home  from  his  club,  and  the 
cards  had  been  propitious  ;  Leah  was  more  reserved  than 
usual,  and  didn't  laugh  at  Barty,  for  a  wonder,  but 
gazed  at  him  with  love  in  her  eyes. 

When  we  left  them,  Barty  took  my  arm  and  walked 
home  with  me,  down  Oxford  Street  and  up  Southampton 
Row,  and  talked  of  Ruy  Bhis  and  Fechter,  whom  he 
had  often  seen  in  Paris. 

Just  where  a  little  footway  leads  from  the  Row  to 
Queen  Square  and  Great  Ormond  Street,  he  stopped  and 
said : 

''  Bob,  do  you  remembrr  how  we  tossed  up  for  Leah 
Gibson  at  this  very  spot  ?" 

'*!  should  think  I  did,"  said  L 

**  Well,  you  had  a  fair  field  and  no  favor,  old  boy, 
didn't  you  ?" 

"Oh  yes,  I've  long  resigned  any  pretensions,  as  I 
wrote  you  more  than  a  year  ago;  you  may  go  in  and 
win — si  le  canir  t'en  dit  I" 

*'Well,  then,  your  congratulations,  please.  I  asked 
her  to  marry  me  as  we  crossed  Regent  Circus,  Oxford 
Street,  on  the  way  homo  ;  a  hiinsom  came  by  and  scattered 
and  splashed  us.  Then  we  came  togetlier  again,  and 
just  o])posite  Peter  Roljinson's,  she  asked  me  if  my  mind 
M'as  quite  made  up — if  I  was  sure  I  wouhln't  ever  change. 
I  swore  by  the  eternal  gods,  and  she  said  she  would  be 
my  wife  ;  so  there  we  are,  an  engaged  couple." 

I  must  ask  the  reader  to  believe  tluit  1  was  equal  to 
the  occasion,  and  said  what  I  ought  to  have  said. 


Mrs.  Gibson  was  happy  at  last ;  slie  was  satisfied  that 
Barty  was  a  "gentlenum,"  in  spite  of  the  kink  in  his 
birth;  and  as  for  his  prospects,  money  was  a  thing  that 


%f»- 


never  entered  Mrs.  (iibson's  lieud,  and  she  loved  Barty 
as  a  son  —  Avas  a  little  bit  in  love  with  him  herself,  I 
believe ;  she  was  not  yet  forty,  and  as  pretty  as  she 
could  be. 

Besides,  a  week  after,  who  should  call  upon  her  over 
the  shop — there  was  Ji  private  entrance  of  course — but 
the  llight  n()iioral)le  Jjady  Caroline  Grey  and  her  niece. 
Miss  Daphne  Kohan,  ii:randdau<:(htcr  of  the  late  and 
niece  of  the  present  .Marcpiis  of  AVliitby  ! 

And  Mrs.  Gibson  felt  as  much  at  home  with  them  in 
five  minutes  as  if  she'd  known  them  all  her  life. 

Leah  was  sumuioned  from  below,  and  kissed  and 
congratulated  by  the  two  aristocratic  relatives  of  Bar- 
ty's,  and  relieved  of  her  shyness  in  a  very  short  time 
indeed. 

As  a  matter  of  fact.  Lady  Caroline,  who  knew  her 
nephew  well,  and  thoronghly  understood  his  position, 
was  really  well  pleased  ;  she  had  never  forgotten  her  im- 
pression of  Leah  when  she  met  her  in  the  park  with  Ida 
and  me  a  year  back,  and  we  all  walked  by  the  Serpentine 
together — a  certaiji  kind  of  beauty  seems  to  break  down 
all  barriers  of  rank ;  and  she  knew  Leah's  character  both 
from  Barty  and  me.  iind  from  her  own  native  shrewdness 
of  observation.  Site  had  been  delighted  to  hear  from 
Barty  of  l^eah's  resolute  partici})ati()n  in  her  father's 
troubles,  and  in  his  attempt — so  successful  through  her — 
to  rehabilitate  his  business.  To  her  old-fashioned  aristo- 
cratic way  of  looking  at  things,  there  was  little  to  choose 
between  a  res[)e('table  West  Knd  shopkeeper  and  a  medi- 
cal practitioner  or  dentist  or  solicitor  or  architect — or 
even  an  artist,  like  Barty  himself.  Once  outside  the 
Church,  the  Army  and  Navy,  or  a  (Jovernment  ottice, 
what  on  earth  did  it  matter  trlio  or  vlial  one  was,  or 
wasn't?    The  only  thing  she  couldn't  stand  was  that 


> 
> 

CO 


O 

M 
O 

►*) 
W 
O 

a 

M 

b 

5? 


334 


horrid  form  of  bourgeois  gentility,  the  pretension  to  seem 
something  better  than  you  really  are.  Mrs.  Gibson  was 
so  naively  honest  in  her  little  laments  over  her  lost 
grandeur  that  she  could  hardly  be  called  vulgar  about  it. 

Mr.  Gibson  didn't  appear  ;  he  was  overawed,  and  dis- 
trusted himself.  I  doubt  if  Lady  Caroline  would  have 
liked  anything  in  the  shape  of  jocose  familiarity  ;  and 
I  fear  her  naturalness  and  simplicity  and  cordiality  of 
manner,  and  the  extreme  plainness  of  her  attire,  might 
have  put  him  at  his  ease  almost  a  trifle  too  much. 

Whether  her  ladyship  would  have  been  so  sympathetic 
about  this  engagement  if  Barty  had  been  a  legitimate 
Rohan — say  a  son  of  her  own — is  perhaps  to  be  doubted ; 
but  anyhow  she  had  quite  made  up  her  mind  that  Leah 
was  a  quite  exceptional  person,  both  in  mind  and  man- 
ners. She  has  often  said  as  much  to  me,  and  has  always 
had  as  high  a  regard  for  Barty's  wife  as  for  any  woman 
she  knows,  and  has  still — the  Rohans  are  a  long-lived 
family.  She  has  often  told  me  she  never  knew  a  better, 
sincerer,  nobler,  or  more  sensible  woman  than  Barty's 
wife. 

Besides  which,  as  I  have  been  told,  the  ancient  York- 
shire house  of  Rohan  has  always  been  singularly  free 
from  aristocratic  hauteur ;  perhaps  their  religion  may 
have  accounted  for  this,  and  also  their  poverty. 

This  memorable  visit,  it  must  be  remembered,  hap- 
pened nearly  forty  years  ago,  when  social  demarcations 
in  England  were  far  more  rigidly  defined  than  at  present ; 
then,  the  wife  of  a  costermonger  with  a  donkey  did  not 
visit  the  wife  of  a  costermonger  who  had  to  wheel  his 
barrow  himself. 

We  are  more  sensible  in  these  days,  as  all  who  like  Mr. 
Chevalier's  admirable  coster-songs  are  aware.  Old  Europe 
itself  has  become  less  tolerant  of  distinctions  of  rank ; 


335 


even  Austria  is  becoming  so.  It  is  only  in  southeastern 
Bulgaria — and  even  of  this  I  am  not  absolutely  sure — that 
the  navvy  who  happens  to  be  of  noble  birth  refuses  to 
work  in  the  same  gang  with  the  navvy  who  isn't ;  and 
that's  what  I  call  real  ^* esprit  de  corps,"  without  which 
no  aristocracy  can  ever  hope  to  hold  its  own  in  these  de- 
generate days. 

Noblesse  oblige  I 

Why,  I've  got  a  Lord  Arthur  in  my  New  York  agency, 
and  two  Hon'bles  in  Barge  Yard,  and  another  at  Cape 
Town ;  and  devilish  good  men  of  business  they  are,  be- 
sides being  good  fellows  all  round.  They  hope  to  become 
partners  some  day ;  and,  by  Jove  !  they  shall.  Vow  I've 
said  it,  I'll  stick  to  it. 

The  fact  is,  I'm  rather  fond  of  noble  lords :  why 
shouldn't  I  be  ?  I  might  have  been  one  myself  any  day 
these  last  ten  years ;  I  might  now,  if  I  chose ;  but  there  I 
Charles  Lamb  knew  a  man  who  wanted  to  be  a  tailor 
once,  but  hadn't  got  the  spirit.  I  find  I  haven't  got  the 
spirit  to  be  a  noble  lord.  Even  Barty  might  have  been  a 
lord — he,  a  mere  man  of  letters ! — but  he  refused  every 
honor  and  distinction  that  was  ever  offered  to  him, 
either  here  or  abroad  —  even  the  Prussian  order  of 
Merit ! 

Alfred  Tennyson  was  a  lord,  so  what  is  there  to  make 
such  a  fuss  about.  Give  me  lords  who  can't  help  them- 
selves, because  they  were  born  so,  and  the  stupider  the 
better;  and  the  older— for  the  older  they  are  the  grander 
their  manners  and  the  manners  of  their  womankind. 

Take,  for  instance,  that  splendid  old  dow,  Penelope, 
Duchess  of  Humtifoozleland — I  always  give  nicknames  to 
my  grand  acquaintances ;  not  that  she's  particularly  old 
herself,  but  she  belongs  to  an  antiquated  order  of  things 
that  is  passing  away — for  she  was  a  Fitztartan,  a  daughter 


836 


of  the  ducal  house  of  Comtesbois  (pronounced  County 
Boyce);  and  she's  very  handsome  still. 

Have  you  ever  been  presented  to  her  Grace,  0  reader  ? 

If  so,  you  must  have  been  struck  by  the  grace  of  her 
Grace's  manner,  as  with  a  ducal  gesture  and  a  few  court- 
ly words  she  recognizes  the  value  of  whatever  immense 
achievements  yours  must  have  been  to  have  procured  you 
such  an  honor  as  such  an  introduction,  and  expresses  uer 
surprise  and  regret  that  she  has  not  Ivnown  you  before. 
The  formula  is  always  the  same,  on  every  possible  occa- 
sion. I  ought  to  know,  for  I've  had  the  honor  of  being 
presented  to  her  Grace  seven  times  this  year. 

Now  this  lofty  forgetting  of  your  poor  existence — or 
mine — is  not  aristocratic  hauteur  or  patrician  insolence  ; 
it  is  bUise  pure  et  simple,  as  they  call  it  in  France.  She 
was  a  daughter  of  the  house  of  Comtesbois,  and  the  Fitz- 
tartans  were  not  the  inventors  of  gunpowder,  nor  was  she. 

But  for  a  stately,  magnificent  Grande  Dame  of  the  an- 
cient regimj,  to  meet  for  the  seventh  time,  and  be  pre- 
sented to — for  the  seventii  time — with  all  due  ceremony 
in  the  midst  of  a  distinguislied  conservative  crowd — say 
at  a  ball  at  Buckingham  Palace — give  me  Penelope, 
Dowager  Duchess  of  Rumtifoozleland  I 

(This  seems  a  somewhat  uncalled-for  digression.  But, 
anyhow,  it  shows  that  when  it  pleases  me  to  do  so  I 
move  in  the  very  best  society — just  like  Barty  Josselin.) 


So  here  was  Mr.  Nobody  of  Nowhere  taking  unto 
himself  a  wife  from  among  the  daughters  of  Ileth ;  from 
the  class  he  had  always  disliked,  the  buyers  cheap  and 
the  sellers  dear — whose  sole  aim  in  life  is  the  making  of 
money,  and  who  are  proud  when  they  succeed  and 
ashamed  when  they  fail — and  getting  actually  fond  of 
his  future  father  and  mother  in  law,  as  I  was  I 


837 


When  1  laughed  to  him  about  old  Gibson — John  Gil- 
pin, as  we  used  to  call  him — being  a  tradesman,  he  said  : 

"Yes;  but  what  an  unsuccessfnl  tradesman,  my  dear 
fellow  I"  as  if  that  in  itself  atoned  or  made  amends  for 
everything. 

** Besides,  he's  Leah's  father!  And  as  for  Mrs.  Gil- 
pin, she's  a  dear,  although  she's  always  on  pleasure  bent ; 
at  all  events,  she's  not  of  a  frugal  mind  ;  and  she's  so 
pretty  and  dresses  so  well — and  what  a  foot  I — and  she's 
got  such  easy  manners,  too  ;  she  reminds  me  of  dear 
Lady  Archibald  I  that's  a  mother-in-law  I  shall  get  on 
with.  ...  I  wish  she  didn't  make  such  a  fuss  about  living 
over  the  shop  ;  1  call  that  being  above  one's  business  in 
every  way." 

''Je  suis  au-dessus  do  mes  aifaires,"  as  old  Bonzig 
proudly  said  when  he  took  ji  garret  over  the  Mont  de 
Piete,  in  the  Rue  des  Averses. 


Barty's  courtship  didn't  last  long — only  five  or  six 
months — during  which  he  made  lots  of  money  by  sketch- 
ino^  little  full-length  i)ortraits  of  people  in  outline  and 
filling  up  with  tints  in  water-color,  lie  thus  immortal- 
ized my  father  and  mother,  and  Id:i  .Scatcherd  and  her 
husband,  and  the  old  Scatcherds,  and  lots  of  other  peo- 
ple. It  was  not  higli  art,  I  suppose  ;  he  was  not  a  high 
artist ;  but  it  paid  well,  and  nuide  him  more  tolerant  of 
trade  than  ever. 

He  took  the  upper  part  of  a  house  in  Soutluimpton 
Row,  and  furnished  it  almost  entirely  with  wedding- 
gifts;  among  other  things,  a  beautiful  semi-grand  piano 
by  Erard — the  gift  of  my  father.  Everytliing  was  charm- 
ing there  and  in  the  best  taste. 

Leah  was  better  at  furnishing  a  house  than  at  drawing 
and  music-making  ;  it  was  an  occupation  she  revelled  in. 


83 


338 


■V 


It  is  not  perhaps  for  nie  to  say  that  their  cellar  might 
hold  its  own  with  that  of  any  heginners  in  their  rank  of 
life! 

Well,  and  so  they  were  married  at  Marylebone  Church, 
and  I  was  Barty's  best  man  (lie  was  to  have  been  mine, 
and  for  that  very  bride).  Nobody  else  wa.;  there  but 
the  family,  and  Ida,  whose  husband  was  abroad  ;  the 
sun  shone,  though  it  was  not  yet  May  —  and  then  we 
breakfasted ;  and  John  Gilpin  made  a  very  funny 
speech,  though  with  tears  in  his  voice  ;  and  as  for  poor 
Maman-belle-mere,  as  Barty  called  her,  she  was  a  very 
Niobe. 

They  went  for  a  fortnight  to  Boulogne.  I  wished  them 
joy  from  the  bottom  of  my  heart,  and  flung  a  charming 
little  white  satin  slipper  of  Mrs.  Gibson's ;  it  alighted 
on  the  carriage — our  carriage,  by-the-way ;  we  had  just 
started  one,  and  now  lived  at  Lancaster  Gate. 

It  was  a  sharp  pang — almost  unbearable,  but,  also,  al- 
most the  last.  The  last  was  when  she  came  back  and  I 
saw  how  radiant  she  looked.     And  as  for  Barty,  he  was 

like 

"  the  herald  Mercury, 
New  lighted  on  a  heaven-kissing  hill !" 


\- 


and  he  had  shaved  off  his  beard  and  mustache  to  please 
his  wife. 


"From  George  du  Maurier,  Esqre.,  A.R.W.S.,  Hampstead  Heath, 
to  the  Right  Honble.  Sir  Robert  Maurice,  Bart.,  M.P. : 

"  My  Dear  Maurice, — In  answer  to  your  kind  letter,  I  shall  be 
proud  and  happy  to  illustrnte  your  biography  of  Barty  Jossclin  ; 
but  as  for  editing  it,  voua  plaisantez,  nion  ami ;  un  amateur  comme 
moi!  who'll  edit  the  editor  ?     Quiscustodietf  .  .  . 

"  You're  mistaken  about  Mulines.  I  only  got  back  there  a  week 
or  two  before  lie  left  it.     I  remember  often  seeing  him  ther'.,  arm 


339 


just 


was 


N,- 


week 
arm 


in  arm  with  his  aunt,  Lady  Caroline  Grey,  and  being  told  that  he 
was  a  motmeur  anr/lais,  qui  ntait  iiiul  anx  yeux  (like  me)  ;  but  in 
Dlisseldorf,  during  the  following  winter,  I  knew  him  very  well  in- 
deed. 

"We,  and  the  others  you  tell  me  you  mention,  hud  a  capital 
time  in  Dilsseldorf.  I  remember  the  beautiful  ]Miss  lioyce  they 
were  all  so  mad  about,  and  also  Miss  Gibson,  whom  I  admired 
much  the  most  of  the  two,  although  she  wasn't  quite  so  tall — you 
know  my  craze  for  lovely  giantesses. 

"  Josselin  ;ind  I  came  to  London  at  about  the  same  time,  and 
there  again  I  saw  much  of  him,  and  was  inunensely  attracted  by 
him,  of  course — as  we  all  were,  in  the  very  pleasant  little  artistic 
clique  you  tell  me  you  describe  ;  but  somehow  I  was  never  very 
intimate  with  him  —  none  of  us  were,  except,  perhaps,  Charles 
Keene. 

"He  went  a  great  deal  into  smart  society,  and  a  little  of  the 
guardsman  still  clung  to  him,  and  this  was  an  unpardonable  crime 
in  those  Bohemian  days. 

"He  was  once  seen  walking  between  two  well-known  earls,  in 
the  Burlington  Arcade,  arm  in  arm  ! 

"  Z (to  whom  a  noble  lord  was  as  a  red  rag  to  a  bidl)  all  but 

cut  him  for  this,  and  we  none  of  us  approved  of  his  swell  friends, 

Guardsmen  and  others.    How  we've  all  changed,  espit  lally  Z , 

who  hasn't  missed  a  levee  for  twenty  years,  nor  his  wife  a  drawing- 
room  ! 

"  Josselin  and  I  acted  in  a  little  French  musical  farce  together  at 
Cornelyss  ;  he  had  a  charming  voice  and  sang  beautifully,  as  you 
know. 

"Then  he  married,  and  a  year  after  I  did  the  same  ;  and  though 
we  lived  near  each  other  for  a  little  while,  we  didn't  meet  very 
often,  beyond  dining  together  once  or  twice  at  each  other's  liouses. 
They  lived  very  much  in  the  world. 

"  It  will  be  very  difflcult  to  diaw  liis  wife.  1  really  thiidi  Mrs. 
Josselin  was  the  most  bcauti  "ul  woman  I  ever  saw  ;  but  .^he  used 
to  be  very  reserved  in  those  eaily  days,  and  I  never  felt  quite  at  my 
ease  with  her.  I'm  sure  she  was  sweetness  and  kindness  itself;  she 
was  certainly  charming  at  her  own  dinuer-iable,  where  she  was  less 

"  Millais's  portrait  of  her  is  very  good,  and  so  is  Watts's  ;  but  the 
best  idea  of  her  is  to  be  got  from  Josselin's  little  outlines  in  '  The 


340 


i4 


Discreet  Princess,'  and  tliese  iire  out  of  print.  If  you  have  any, 
plciise  lend  tliem  to  nic,  and  I  will  faitiifully  return  lliem.  I  have 
more  than  once  tried  to  draw  lier  in  Punch,  from  memory,  but 
never  with  success. 

"  I  used  to  call  her  '  L(t  belle  dame  mnsmerci.' 

"rv(!  often,  however,  drawn  Josselin,  as  you  must  remember, 
and  people  have  recognized  him  at  once.  Tiiatiks  for  all  his  old 
skctclics  of  school,  etc.,  which  will  he  very  useful. 

"  I  wish  I  had  known  the  Josselins  better.  But  when  one  lives 
in  Hiimpstead  one  has  to  forego  many  delightful  friendships  ;  and 
then  he  grew  to  be  such  a  tremendous  swell!  Good  heavens! — 
t^ardonj/.v,  etc.  I  never  could  nuister  courage  eVen  to  write  and 
congratulate  him. 

"  It  never  occurred  to  any  of  us,  either  in  Diisseldorf  or  London, 
to  think  him  what  is  called  clever;  he  never  .said  anything  very 
witty  or  profound.  But  he  was  always  funny  in  a  good-natured, 
jovial  manner,  and  made  me  laugh  more  than  any  one  else. 

"  As  for  satire,  good  heavens  !  that  seemed  not  in  him.  lie  was 
always  well  dressed,  always  in  high  spirits  and  a  good  temper,  and 
very  demcmstrative  and  caressing  ;  putting  his  arm  round  one,  and 
slapping  one  on  the  I)ack  or  lifting  one  up  in  the  air;  a  kind  of 
jolly,  noisy,  boisteror-  boon -companion  —  rather  uproarious,  in 
fact,  and  with  no  disdain  for  a  good  bottle  of  wine  or  a  good  bottle 
of  beer.  His  artistic,  tastes  were  very  catholic,  for  he  was  pros- 
trate in  admiration  before  ^Millais,  Burne-Jones,  Fred  Walker,  and 
Charles  Keene,  with  the  latter  of  whom  he  used  to  sing  old  English 
duets.  Oddly  enough,  Charles  Keene  had  for  Josselin's  little  ama- 
teur penciiiings  the  most  enthusiastic  admiration  —  probably  be- 
(fause  they  were  the  very  antipodes  of  his  own  splendid  work.  I 
believe  he  managed  to  get  some  little  initial  letters  of  Josselin's  into 
Punch  ami  Once  a  Week  ;  but  they  weren't  signed,  and  made  no 
mark,  and  Ive  forgotten  them. 

"Josselin  tlidn't  really  get  his  foot  in  the  stirrup  till  a  year  or 
two  after  his  marriage. 

"And  that  was  by  his  illustrations  to  his  own  S((rdony:r,w\\\c\x. 
are  almost  worthy  of  the  letter-press,  I  think  ;  though  still  some- 
what lacking  in  freetlom  and  looseness,  and  especially  in  the  sense 
of  tone.  The  feeling  for  beauty  and  character  in  them  (especially 
that  of  women  and  children)  is  so  utterly  beyond  anything  else  of 
the  kind  thai  has  ever  been  attempted,  that  technical  considerations 


"r^">:^lr^9r 


y-- 


^%'^M^& -^-ih. 


843 


no  longer  count.      I  think  you  will  find  all  of  us,  in  or  outside  the 
Academy,  agreed  upon  this  point. 

"1  saw  very  little  of  him  after  he  bought  Marsfield;  but  I  some- 
times meet  his  sons  and  daughters,  dc  par  le  immde. 

"  And  what  a  pleasure  that  is  to  an  artist  t)f  my  particular  bent 
you  can  readily  understand.  I  would  go  a  good  way  to  see  or 
talk  to  any  daughter  of  Josselin's  ;  and  to  hear  Mrs.  Trevor  sing, 
what  miles  !  I'm  told  the  grandchildren  are  splendid — chips  of 
tho  old  block  too. 

"And  now,  my  dear  Maurice,  I  will  do  my  best ;  you  may  count 
upon  that,  for  old-times'  sake,  and  for  Josselin's,  and  for  that  of 
'La  belle  dame  suhh  inerci,'  whom  I  used  to  admire  so  enthusias- 
tically, it  grieves  me  deeply  to  tliink  of  them  both  gone — and 
all  so  sudden  1 

"  Sincen'ly  yours. 

"Gkorok   du  Mauuirr. 

"P.  S. — Very  many  thanks  for  the  Chateau  Yciuem  and  the  Stein- 
berger  Cabinet ;  je  tdcherai  de  ne  pas  en  abuner  trop  ! 

"I  send  you  a  dttle  sketch  of  Graham-Recce  (Lord  Ironsides), 
taken  by  rae  ou  a  little  bridge  in  Dllsselthal,  near  Dlisseldorf.  He 
stood  for  me  there  in  1860.     It  was  thought  very  like  at  the  time." 


When  the  Josselins  came  ]>ac'k  from  their  honeymoon 
and  were  settled  in  Southampton  Row  many  people  of 
all  kinds  called  on  the  newly  married  pair  ;  invitations 
came  pouring  in,  and  tliey  went  very  mucli  into  the 
world.  They  were  considered  the  handsomest  couple  in 
London  that  year,  and  became  quite  the  fashion,  and 
were  asked  everywhere,  aiul  mjide  much  of,  and  raved 
about,  and  had  a  glorious  time  till  the  following  season, 
when  somebody  else  became  the  fashion,  and  they  liad 
grown  tired  of  being  lionized  themselves,  and  discovered 
they  were  people  of  no  social  importance  wluitever,  as 
Leah  had  long  perceived  ;  tind  it  did  them  good. 

Barty  was  in  his  element.  'J'he  admiration  his  wife 
excited  iilled  him  with  delight ;  it  was  a  kind  of  reflected 


343 


glory,  that  pleased  him  more  than  any  glory  he  could 
possibly  achieve  for  himself. 

I  doubt  if  Leah  was  quite  so  happy.  Tlie  grand  people, 
the  famous  people,  the  clever,  worldly  j)eoplc  she  met 
made  her  very  sliy  at  first,  as  may  be  easily  imagined. 

She  was  rather  embarrassed  by  the  attentions  many 
smart  men  paid  her  as  to  a  very  pretty  woman,  and  not 
always  pleased  or  edified.  Her  deep  sense  of  humor  was 
often  tickled  by  this  now  position  in  wliich  she  found 
herself,  and  which  she  put  down  entirely  to  the  fact  that 
sh'"  was  Barty's  wife. 

She  never  thought  much  of  her  own  beauty,  which  had 
never  been  made  much  of  at  home,  where  beauty  of  a 
very  different  order  was  admired,  and  where  she  was 
thought  too  tall,  too  pale,  too  plim,  and  especially  too 
quiet  and  sedate. 

Dimpled  little  rosy  plumpness  for  Mr.  and  Mrs.  John 
Gilpin,  and  the  never-ending  lively  cliatter,  and  tlic 
ever-ready  laugh  that  results  from  an  entire  lack  of  the 
real  sense  of  humor  and  a  laudable  desire  to  show  one's 
pretty  teeth. 

Leah's  only  vanity  Avas  her  fondness  for  being  very  well 
dressed  ;  it  had  become  a  second  nature,  especially  her 
fondiiess  for  beautiful  French  boots  and  shoes,  an  in- 
stinct inherited  from  her  mother. 

For  these,  and  for  pretty  furniture  aiul  hangings,  she 
had  the  truly  a3sthetic  eye,  and  was  in  advance  of  hur 
time  by  at  least  a  year. 

She  shone  most  in  her  own  home  —  by  her  great 
faculty  of  making  others  at  liome  there,  too,  aiul  disin- 
clined to  leave  it.  Her  instinct  of  }i()s])itality  was  a  true  in- 
heritance ;  she  was  good  at  the  ordering  of  all  such  things 
— food,  wines,  fiowers,  waiting,  every  little  detail  of  the 
dinner-table,  and  especially  who  should  be  asked  to  meet 


344 


whom,  and  wliich  purti'iiliir  guests  should  be  chosen  to 
sit  by  each  other.  All  things  of  which  Biirty  liad  no 
idea  whatever. 

I  renionilx'r  their  first  dinner-party  Avell.  and  hoAV 
pleasant  it  was.  How  good  the  fare,  and  how  simple  ; 
and  how  quick  the  hired  waiting — and  the  wines  I  how — 
(but  I  won't  talk  of  that);  and  Iiow  lively  we  all  were, 
and  how  handsome  the  women.  Lady  Caroline  and  Miss 
Daphne  Kohan,  Mr.  and  .Mrs.  (Iraliani-lJeece,  Scatcherd 
and  my  sister  ;  G.  du  Maurier  (then  a  bachelor)  tind  my- 
self— that  was  the  i)arty,  a  very  lively  one. 

After  dinner  dn  Maurier  and  liarty  sang  ciipitjd  songs 
of  the  quartier  latin,  and  told  stories  of  tlic  atelier,  and 
even  danced  a  kind  of  cancan  together — an  invention  of 
their  own — which  they  caMed  *'/r  (ivnn'cr  ffcs  Ahcncer- 
ra(/es."  We  were  in  fits  of  laughtcu*,  especially  Lady 
Caroline  and  Afrs.  Graham-Keece.  I  hope  D.  ^L  has 
not  forgotten  that  scene,  and  will  do  justice  to  it  in  this 
book. 

There  was  still  more  of  the  liohemian  than  the  (Juards- 
man  left  in  Barty,  and  his  wife's  natural  tastes  were  far 
more  in  the  direction  of  Bohemia  than  of  fashionable 
West  End  society,  as  it  was  called  l)y  some  people  who 
were  not  in  it,  whatever  it  consists  of  ;  there  was  more  of 
her  father  in  her  than  her  motb.cr.  and  she  was  not  sen- 
sitive to  the  w'orld's  opinion  of  iicr  social  status. 

Sometimes  Leah  aiul  Barty  and  I  would  dine  together 
and  go  to  tlie  gallery  of  thi'  <>pi4'a.  Id  us  say,  or  to  see 
Fechter  and  Miss  Kate  Terry  in  the  liKkr's  .]fn/fn,  or 
Kobson  in  Shylock,  or  tlie  J^urfcr's  Knof.  or  whatever 
was  good.  Then  on  tlu'  way  home  to  Sontluimpton  J{ow 
Barty  would  buy  a  big  lobster,  and  Leah  would  make  a 
salad  of  it,  with  innovations  of  her  own  devising  wliicii 
were  much  appreciated;   and  tlien  we  would  feust,  and 


tlier 
)  see 
»,  or 
ever 
K'ow 
ikc  ;i 
lich 
.  iuid 


r 


73 


O 
cn 

> 
w 


^^^&>^a^-^^g^ 


.3» 


ill 


346 


afterwards  Leah  would  mull  some  claret  in  a  silver 
saucepan,  and  then  wo  (Barty  and  I)  would  drink  and 
smoke  aijd  chat  of  pleasant  things  till  it  was  very  late 
indeed  and  I  lad  to  be  turned  out  neck  and  crop. 

And  the  kindness  of  the  two  dear  people  !  Once,  when 
my  father  aiyl  mot  1 1  or  were  away  in  the  Islo  of  Wight 
and  the  Scatcherds  in  Paris,  I  felt  so  seedy  I  had  to  leave 
Barge  Yard  and  go  home  to  Lancaster  Gate.  I  had  felt 
pretty  bad  for  two  or  tiiree  days.  Like  all  people  who 
are  never  ill.  I  was  nervous  and  thought  I  was  going  to 
die,  and  sent  for  Barty. 

In  less  than  twenty  minutes  Leah  drove  up  in  a  han- 
som, liarty  was  in  Hampton  Court  for  the  day,  sketch- 
ing. When  she  had  seen  me  and  how  ill  I  looked,  off 
she  went  for  the  doctor,  and  brought  him  back  with  her 
in  no  time.  Ho  saw  I  was  sickening  for  typhoid,  and 
must  go  to  bed  at  once  and  engage  two  nurses. 

Lea)'  insisted  on  taking  me  straight  off  to  Southamp- 
ton Row,  and  the  doctor  came  with  us.  There  I  was 
soon  in  bed  and  the  nurses  engaged,  and  everything  done 
for  me  as  if  I'd  been  Barty  himself — all  this  at  consider- 
able inconvenience  to  the  Josselins. 

And  I  had  my  typhoid  most  pleasantly.  And  I  shall 
never  forget  the  joys  of  convalescence,  nor  what  an  angel 
that  woman  was  in  a  sick  -  room — nor  what  a  companion 
when  the  worst  was  over;  nor  how  she  so  bore  herself 
through  all  this  forced  intimacy  that  no  unruly  regrcls 
or  jealousies  mingled  in  my  deep  affection  and  admira- 
tion for  her,  and  my  passionate  gratitude.  She  was 
such  a  person  to  tell  all  one's  -.iffairs  to,  even  dry  busi- 
ness affairs  !  such  a  listener,  and  said  such  sensible 
things,  and  i^ometimes  made  suggestions  that  were  in- 
valuable ;  and  of  a  discretion  I  a  very  tomb  for  momen- 
tous secrets. 


347 


shall 


How  on  earth  Barty  would  have  ever  managed  to  get 
through  existence  without,  her  is  not  to  be  conceived. 
Upon  my  word,  I  hardly  see  how  I  should  have  got  on 
myself  without  these  two  people  to  fill  my  life  with  ;  and 
in  all  matters  of  real  importance  to  me  she  wag  the 
nearest  of  the  two,  for  Barty  was  so  light  about  things, 
and  couldn't  listen  long  to  anything  that  was  at  all 
intricate.  Such  matters  bored  him,  and  that  extraor- 
dinary good  sense  which  underlies  all  his  brilliant  crit- 
icism of  life  was  apt  to  fail  him  in  practical  matters  ; 
he  was  too  headstrong  and  impulsive,  and  by  no  means 
discreet. 

It  was  quite  amusing  to  watch  the  Avay  his  wife  man- 
aged him  without  ever  letting  him  suspect  what  she  was 
doing,  and  how,  after  his  raging  and  fuming  and  storming 
and  stamping — for  all  his  old  fractiousness  had  come 
back — she  would  gradually  make  him  work  his  way 
round  —  of  his  own  accord,  as  he  thought  —  to  complete 
concession  all  along  the  line,  and  take  great  credit  to 
himself  in  consequence ;  and  she  would  very  gravely  aiul 
slowly  give  way  to  a  delicate  little  wink  in  my  direc- 
tion, but  never  a  smile  at  what  was  all  so  really  funny. 
I've  no  doubt  she  often  got  me  to  do  what  she  thought 
right  in  just  the  same  way — d  mon  insu — and  shot  her 
little  wink  at  Barty. 


In  due  time — namely,  late  in  the  evening  of  December 
31,  1802 — Barty  hailed  a  hansom,  and  went  first  to  sutn- 
mon  his  good  friend  Dr.  Knight,  in  Orchard  Street  ;  and 
then  he  drove  to  lirixton,  and  woke  u})  and  brought 
bai'k  with  him  a  very  res})ectable,  middle -aged,  and 
motherly  woman  whose  name  was  Jones  ;  and  next 
morning,  which  was  a  very  sunny,  frosty  one,  my  dear 
little  god-daughter  was  ushered  into  this  sinful  world,  a 


348 


fact  which  was  chronicled  the  very  next  day  in  Leah's 
diary  by  the  simple  entry  : 

"Jim.  1. — Roberta  was  born  and  the  coals  came  in." 

When  Koberta  was  first  shown  to  her  papa  by  the 
nurse,  he  was  in  despair  and  ran  and  sliut  himself  up  in  his 
studio,  and,  I  believe,  almost  wept.  He  feared  he  had 
brought  a  monster  into  the  world.  He  had  always 
thought  that  female  babies  were  born  with  large  blue 
eyes  framed  with  long  lashes,  a  beautiful  complexion  of 
the  lily  and  the  rose,  and  their  shining,  flaxen  curls 
already  parted  in  the  middle.  And  this  little  bald, 
wrinkled,  dark- red,  howling  lump  of  humanity  all  but 
made  him  ill.  But  soon  the  doctor  came  and  knocked 
at  the  door,  and  said  : 

"  I  congratulate  you,  old  fellow,  on  having  produced 
the  most  magnificent  little  she  I  ever  saw  in  my  life — 
bar  none  ;  she  niight  be  shown  for  money." 

And  it  turned  out  that  this  was  not  the  coarse,  unfeel- 
ing chaff  poor  liarty  took  it  for  at  first,  but  the  pure  and 
simple  truth. 

So,  my  blessed  Roberta,  pride  of  your  siliy  old  god- 
father's heart  and  apple  of  his  eye,  mother  of  Cupid  and 
Ganymede  and  Aui'ora  and  the  infant  Hercules,  think 
of  your  poor  young  father  weeping  in  solitude  at  the  first 
sight  of  you,  because  you  were  so  hideous  in  his  eyes  ! 

You  were  not  so  in  mine.  Next  day — you  had  imjiroved, 
no  doubt — I  took  you  in  my  arms  and  thought  well  of 
you,  especially  your  little  hands  that  were  very  prehen- 
sile, and  your  little  feet  turned  in,  with  rosy  toes  and  lit- 
tle pink  nails  like  shiny  gems  ;  and  I  was  comjilimented 
by  Mrs.  Jones  on  the  skill  with  which  I  dandled  you.  I 
have  dandled  your  sons  and  daughters,  Roberta,  and 
may  I  live  to  dandle  theirs  ! 


' 


340 


So  then  Barty  dried  his  tears,  if  lie  really  shed  them — 
and  he  swears  he  did — and  went  and  sat  by  his  wife's 
bedside,  and  felt  unutterably,  as  I  believe  all  good  men 
do  under  similar  circumstances;  and  lol — in'ohl— to  his 
wonderment  and  delight,  in  the  middle  of  it  all,  the 
sense  of  the  north  came  back  like  a  tide,  like  an  over- 
whelming avalanche.  lie  declared  he  all  but  fainted  in 
the  double  ineffability  of  his  bliss. 

That  night  he  arranged  by  his  l)edside  writing  materi- 
als chosen  with  extra  care,  and  before  he  went  to  bed 
he  looked  out  of  window  at  the  stars,  and  tilled  his 
lungs  with  the  clean,  frozen,  virtuous  air  of  Bloomsbury, 
and  whispered  a  most  passionate  i]i vocation  to  Martia, 
and  implored  her  forgiveness,  and  went  to  sleep  hugging 
the  thought  of  her  to  his  manly  breast,  now  widowed  for 
quite  a  month  to  come. 

Next  morning  there  was  a  long  letter  in  bold,  vigorous 
Blaze  : 


''My  more  tiiax  ever  reloved  Bahty,— It  is  for 
me  to  implore  pardon,  not  for  yon!  Your  iirst-born  is 
proof  enough  to  me  how  right  you  were  in  letting  your 
own  insthict  guide  you  in  the  choice  of  a  wife. 

*' Ah  !  and  well  now  I  know  her  worth  and  your  good- 
fortune.  I  have  inhabited  her  for  nuiny  months,  little 
as  she  knows  it,  dear  thinL^  I 

''Although  she  was  not  the  woman  I  lirst  wanted  for 
you,  and  had  watched  so  many  years,  she  is  all  that  I 
could  wish,  in  body  and  miiul,  in  beauty  and  sense  and 
goodness  of  heart  and  intelligence,  in  health  and  strength. 
and  especially  in  the  love  with  which  she  has  so  eusik, , 
and  I  trust  so  lastingly,  filled  your  heart — lor  that  is 
the  most  precious  thing  of  all  to  me,  as  yon  shall  know 
some  day,  and  why ;  and  you  will  then  understand  and 


350 


forgive  me  for  seeming  such  a  shameless  egotist  and 
caring  so  desperately  for  my  own  ends. 

"  Barty,  I  will  never  doubt  you  again,  and  we  will  do 
great  things  together.  They  will  not  be  quite  what  I 
used  to  hope,  but  they  will  be  worth  doing,  and  all  the 
doing  will  be  yours.  All  I  can  do  is  to  set  your  brains 
in  motion — those  innocent  brains  that  don't  know  their 
own  strength  any  more  than  a  herd  of  bullocks  which 
any  little  butcher  boy  can  drive  to  the  slaughter-house. 

'*As  soon  as  Leah  is  well  enough  you  must  tell  her 
all  about  me — all  you  know,  that  is.  She  won't  believe 
you  at  first,  and  she'll  think  you've  gone  mad ;  but  she'll 
have  to  believe  you  in  time,  and  she's  to  be  trusted  with 
any  secret,  and  so  will  you  be  when  once  you've  shared 
it  with  her. 

**  (By-the-way,  I  wish  you  weren't  so  slipshod  and  col- 
loquial in  your  English,  Barty — Guardsman's  English,  I 
suppose — which  I  have  to  use,  as  it's  yours  ;  your  French 
is  much  more  educated  and  correct.  You  remember 
dear  M.  Durosier  at  the  Pension  Brossard  ?  he  taught 
you  well.  You  must  read,  and  cultivate  a  decent  Eng- 
lish style,  for  the  bulk  of  our  joint  work  must  be  in  Eng- 
lish, I  think  ;  and  I  can  only  use  your  own  words  to 
make  you  immortal,  and  your  own  way  of  using  them.) 

*'We  will  be  simple,  Barty  —  as  simple  as  Lemuel 
Gulliver  and  the  good  Robinson  Crusoe — and  cultivate  a 
fondness  for  words  of  one  syllable,  and  if  that  doesn't  do 
we'll  try  French. 

"Now  listen,  or,  rather,  read  : 

"  First  of  all,  I  will  write  out  for  you  a  list  of  books, 
which  you  must  study  whenever  you  feel  I'm  inside  you 
— and  this  more  for  me  than  for  yourself.  Those  marked 
with  a  cross  you  must  read  constantly  and  carefully  at 
home,  the  others  you  must  read  at  the  British  Museum. 


S51 


"  Get  a  reading  ticket  at  once,  and  read  tlie  books  in 
the  order  I  put  down.  Never  forget  to  leave  paper  and 
pencil  by  your  bedside.  Leah  will  soon  get  accustomed 
to  your  quiet  somnambulism  ;  I  will  never  trouble  your 
rest  for  more  than  an  hour  or  so  each  niglit,  but  you  can 
make  up  for  it  by  staying  in  bed  an  hour  or  two  longer. 
You  will  have  to  work  during  the  day  from  the  pencil 
notes  in  Blaze  you  will  have  written  during  the  night, 
and  in  the  evening,  or  at  any  time  you  are  conscious  of 
my  presence,  read  what  you  have  written  during  the  day, 
and  leave  it  by  your  bedside  when  you  go  to  bed,  that  I 
may  make  you  correct  and  alter  and  suggest  —  during 
your  sleep. 

"  Only  write  on  one  side  of  a  page,  leaving  a  margin 
and  plenty  of  space  between  the  lines,  and  let  it  be  in 
copybooks,  so  that  the  page  on  the  left-hand  side  be  left 
for  additions  and  corrp  .tions  from  my  Blaze  notes,  and  so 
forth  ;  you'll  soon  get  into  the  way  of  it. 

*^Then  when  each  copybook  is  complete  —  I  will  let 
you  know  — get  Leah  to  copy  it  out;  she  writes  a 
very  good,  legible  business  hand.  All  will  arrange  it- 
self. .  .  . 

'•^And  now,  get  the  books  and  begin  reading  them.  I 
shall  not  be  ready  to  write,  nor  will  you,  for  more  than  a 
month. 

**  Keep  this  from  everybody  but  Leah  ;  don't  even 
mention  it  to  Maurice  until  I  give  you  leave — not  but 
what's  he's  to  be  thoroughly  trusted.  You  are  fortunate 
in  your  wife  and  your  friend— I  hope  the  day  will  come 
when  you  will  find  you  have  been  fortunate  in  your 

"Marti  A." 


Here  follows  a  list  of  books,  but  it  has  been  more  or 
less  carefully  erased ;  and  though  some  of  the  names  are 


352 


still  to  be  made  out,  I  conclude  that  Baity  did  not  wish 
them  to  be  made  public. 


t 


hf. 


Before  Roberta  was  born,  Leah  had  reserved  herself 
an  hour  every  morning  and  every  afternoon  for  what  she 
called  the  cultivation  of  her  mind — the  careful  reading 
of  good  standard  books,  French  and  English,  that  she 
might  qualify  herself  in  time,  as  she  said,  for  the  intel- 
lectual society  in  which  she  hoped  to  mix  some  day  ;  she 
built  castles  in  the  air,  being  somewhat  of  a  hero-worship- 
per in  secret,  and  dreamt  of  meeting  her  heroes  in  the 
flesh,  now  that  she  was  Barty's  wife. 

But  when  she  b'  ime  a  mother  there  was  not  only 
Koberta  who  required  much  attention,  but  Barty  himself 
made  great  calls  u])on  her  time  besides. 

To  his  friends'  astonishment  he  had  taken  it  into  his 
head  to  write  a  book.  Good  heavens  !  Barty  writing  a 
book  I  What  on  earth  could  the  dear  boy  Inive  to  write 
about  ? 

He  wrote  much  of  the  book  at  night  in  bed,  and  cor- 
rected and  put  it  into  shape  during  the  daytime  ;  and 
finally  Leah  had  to  copy  it  all  out  neatly  in  her  best 
handwriting,  and  this  copying  out  of  Barty's  books  be- 
came to  her  an  all  but  daily  task  for  niiiny  years — a  happy 
labor  of  love,  and  one  she  would  depute  to  no  one  else  ; 
no  hired  hand  should  interfere  with  these  precious  pro- 
ductions of  her  husband's  genius.  So  that  most  of  the 
standard  works,  English  and  French,  that  she  grew  to 
thoroughly  master  were  of  her  husband's  writing  —  not 
t*  bad  education,  I  venture  to  think  I 

Besides,  it  was  more  in  her  nature  and  in  the  circum- 
stances of  her  life  that  she  should  become  a  woman  of 
business  and  a  woman  of  the  world  rather  than  a  reader 
of  books  —  one  who  grew  to  thoroughly  understand  life 


)t  wish 


herself 
hat  she 
I'eading 
uit  she 
e  intel- 
ly  ;  she 
orship- 
!  in  tlie 

ot  only 
himself 


nto  his 
citing  Ji 
o  write 


nd  cor- 
le  ;  and 
er  best 
oks  be- 
i  hap]W 
le  else  ; 
Ills  pro- 
of the 
^rew  to 
g  —  not 

31  rcu  Hi- 
tman of 
reader 
md  life 


as  it  presented  itself  to  her ;  and  men  and  women,  and 
especially  children  ;  and  the  mana^j^ement  of  a  large  and 
much  frc  juented  liouse  ;  for  they  soon  moved  away  from 
Southampton  Kow. 

She  quickly  arrived  at  a  complete  mastery  of  all 
such  science  as  this — iind  it  is  a  science;  such  a  mas- 
tery as  T  have  never  seen  surpassed  l)y  any  other  woman, 
of  whatever  worhl.  She  would  liave  made  a  jilcn- 
did.  Marcliioness  of  Whitl)y,  tliis  daughter  of  a  low- 
comedy  Joiin  Gili)in  ;  she  would  have  beaten  tiie  Whitby 
record  I 

She  developed  into  a  woman  of  the  world  in  the  best 
sense — full  of  sympathy,  full  of  observation  and  quick 
understanding  of  others'  needs  and  thoughts  and  feel- 
ings;  absolutely  sincere,  of  a  constant  and  even  tem}»er, 
and  a  cheerfulness  that  never  failed — tlie  result  of  her 
splendid  health  ;  without  caprice,  without  a  spark  of 
vanity,  without  sellishiicss  of  any  kind — generous,  open- 
handed,  charitable  to  a  fault ;  always  taking  the  largo 
and  generous  view  of  everything  and  everybody  ;  a  little 
impulsive  perhaps,  but  not  often  having  to  regret  her 
impulses  ;  of  unwearied  devotion  to  her  husband,  and 
capa])le  of  any  heroism  or  self-sacrifice  for  his  sake  ;  of 
that  I  feel  sure. 

No  one  is  perfect,  of  course.  Unfortunately,  she  was 
apt  to  be  somewhat  jealous  at  first  of  his  singularly 
catholic  and  very  frankly  expressed  admiration  of  every 
opposite  type  of  feuiale  beauty ;  but  she  soon  grew  to 
see  that  there  was  safety  in  numbers,  and  she  was  made 
to  feel  in  time  that  her  own  type  was  the  arch-type  of 
all  in  his  eyes,  and  herself  the  arch-representative  of  that 
type  in  his  heart. 

She  was  also  jealous  in  her  friendships,  and  was  not 
happy  unless  constantly  assured  of  her  friends*  warm 

2R 


854 


love — Ida's,  mine,  even  tliat  of  her  own  father  and 
mother.  Good  heavens  !  had  ever  a  woman  less  cause 
for  doubt  or  complaint  on  that  score  ! 

Then,  like  all  extremely  conscientious  people  who 
always  know  their  own  mind  and  do  their  very  best, 
she  did  not  like  to  bo  found  fault  with;  she  secretlv 
found  such  fault  with  herself  that  she  thought  that  was 
fault-find  in  jj  enoujjh.  Also,  she  was  somewhat  rigid  in 
sticking  to  the  ways  she  thought  were  right,  and  in 
the  selection  of  these  ways  she  was  not  always  quite  in- 
fallible. On  a  les  defauts  de  ses  qu(dites;  and  a  little 
obstinacy  is  often  the  fault  of  a  very  noble  quality  in- 
deed ! 

Though  somewhat  shy  and  standoffish  during  the  first 
year  or  two  of  her  married  life,  she  scon  became  " Joli- 
ment  degourdie,"  as  Barty  called  it ;  and  I  can  scarcely 
conceive  any  position  in  which  she  would  have  been 
awkward  or  embarrassed  for  a  moment,  so  ready  was  she 
always  with  just  the  right  thing  to  say — or  to  withhold, 
if  silence  were  better  than  speech  ;  and  her  fit  and  proper 
place  in  the  world  as  a  great  nuiii's  wife — and  a  good  and 
beautiful  wonum — was  always  conceded  to  her  with  due 
honor,  even  by  the  most  imi)crtiiient  among  the  highly 
placed  of  her  own  sex,  without  any  necessity  for  self- 
assertion  on  her  part  whatever — without  assumption  of 
any  kind. 

It  was  a  strange  and  peculiar  personal  ascendency  she 
managed  to  exert  with  so  little  eifort,  an  asceiulency 
partly  physical,  no  doubt ;  and  the  practice  of  it  had  be- 
gun in  the  AVest  End  emporium  of  the  "  Universal  Fur 
Com^mny,  Limited." 

How  admirably  she  filled  the  high  and  arduous  posi- 
tion of  wife  to  such  a  man  as  JJarty  Josselin  is  well 
known  to  the  world  at  large.     It  was  no  sinecure  !  but 


sm 


she  gloried  in  it ;  and  to  her  thorough  apprehension  and 
management  of  their  joint  lives  and  all  that  came  of 
them,  as  well  as  to  her  heauty  and  sense  and  genial 
warmth,  was  due  her  great  popularity  for  many  years  in 
an  immense  and  ever-widening  circle,  where  the  memory 
of  her  is  still  preserved  and  cherished  as  one  of  the  most 
remarkable  women  of  her  time. 

AVlth  all  this  power  of  passionate  self-surrender  to  her 
husband  in  all  things,  little  and  big,  she  was  not  of  the 
type  that  cannot  see  the  faults  of  the  beloved  one,  and 
]iarty  Avas  very  often  frankly  pulled  up  for  his  short- 
comings, and  by  no  means  had  it  all  his  own  way  when 
his  own  way  wasn't  good  for  him.  She  was  a  person 
to  reckon  with,  and  incapable  of  the  slightest  flattery, 
even  to  Barty,  who  was  so  fond  of  it  from  her,  and  in 
spite  of  her  unbounded  admiration  for  him. 

Such  was  your  mother,  my  dear  Roberta,  in  the  bloom 
of  her  early  twenties  and  ever  after ;  till  her  death,  in 
fact — on  the  day  following  his  ! 

•  t  •  •  •  «  • 

Somewhere  about  the  spring  of  18G3  she  said  to  me  : 
"Bob, Barty  has  written  a  book.  Either  I'm  an  idiot, 
or  blinded  by  conjugal  conceit,  or  else  Barty 's  book 
— which  I've  copied  out  myself  in  my  very  best  haiul- 
writing — is  one  of  the  most  beautiful  and  important 
books  ever  written.  Come  and  dine  witli  me  to-night ; 
iJurty's  dining  in  the  City  with  the  Fislimongers — you 
shall  have  what  you  like  best :  pickled  pork  and  pease- 
pudding,  a  drets.^ed  crab  and  jir  Welsli  rubl)it  to  follow, 
and  draught  stouc — and  after  dinner  I  will  read  you  tlie 
beginning  of  SardoHjf.r — that's  what  he's  called  it — and 
I  should  like  to  have  your  opinion." 

1  dined  with  her  as  she  wished.  \Ve  w(n'e  alone,  und 
she  told  me  how  he  wrote  every  night  in  bed.  in  a  kind 


357 


of  ecstasy — between  two  mid  four,  in  lihize — uiul  then 
elaborated  liis  work  during  the  day,  and  made  sketclies 
for  it. 

And  after  dinner  she  read  me  the  first  part  of  Sardo- 
nyx;  it  took  three  liours. 

Then  liarty  came  lionie,  having  d'ned  well,  and  in 
very  high  s})irits. 

''  Well,  old  fellow  !  how  do  you  like  San/out/.r?'' 

1  was  so  moved  and  excited  I  could  say  nothing — I 
couldn't  evfii  smoke.  I  was  allowed  to  take  the  pre- 
cious manuscript  away  with  me,  and  iinished  it  during 
the  night. 

Next  morning  I  wrote  to  him^  out  of  the  fulness  of 
my  lieart. 

I  read  it  aloud  to  my  father  and  mother,  and  then  lent 
it  to  Scatcherd.  who  read  it  to  Ma.  In  twenty-four 
hours  our  gay  and  genial  Barty — our  Uobin  (loodfellow 
and  Merry  Andrew,  our  funny  man — had  becomo  for  us 
a  dcmi-god  ;  for  all  but  my  father,  who  looked  upon  him 
as  a  splendid  but  irretrievably  lost  soul,  and  mourned 
over  him  as  over  a  son  of  his  own. 

And  in  two  months  Sanhnti/.i:  was  before  the  reading 
world,  and  the  middle-aged  reader  will  remember  the 
wild  enthusiasm  and  the  storm  it  raised. 

All  that  is  ancient  history,  and  I  will  do  no  more  than 
allude  to  the  unparalleled  bitterness  of  the  attacks  made 
bv  the  Church  on  a  book  which  is  now  <|U()te(l  iiiiiiiii  and 
again  from  every  pulj)if  in  Kngland — in  the  world— and 
has  been  translated  into  almost  every  language  under 
the  sun. 

Thus  he  leapcMJ  into  fame  ami  fortune  at  a  bound,  and 
at  lirst  they  delighted  him.  He  would  take  little  lioberta 
on  to  the  top  of  ins  head  and  dance  '*  I^a  Paladine"  on 
his  hearth-rug,  singing  : 


358 

"Rataplan,  Rataplan, 
I'm  a  celebrated  man — " 


ill  imitation  of  Sergeant  Bouncer  in  Cox  and  Box. 

But  in  less  than  a  year  celebrity  had  quite  palled,  and 
all  liis  money  bored  him — as  mine  does  me.  lie  had  a 
very  small  apjietite  for  either  the  pra'se  or  the  pudding 
which  were  served  out  to  him  in  such  excess  all  through 
his  life.  It  was  only  his  fondness  for  the  work  itself 
that  kept  his  nose  so  constantly  to  the  grindstone. 

Within  six  months  of  the  Sardouj/x  Barty  wrote  La 
qnafvieine  Biinoisio//  in  French,  which  was  published 
by  Dollfus-Mo'is  freresi,  in  Paris,  with  if  possible  a 
greater  success ;  for  tlie  clerical  opposition  was  even 
more  virulent.  The  English  iranslation,  which  is  ad- 
mirable, is  by  Scatcherd. 

TJien  Ciime  M(des  in  a  Moonhraiu,  In/crM/rUar  J/ar- 
monirs,  and  Bertha  anx  (jrands  Picds  witliin  eighteen 
months,  so  that  before  he  was  (piite  thirty,  in  the 
space  of  two  years,  Barty  luul  i)rodueed  five  works — 
three  in  English  and  two  in  Frencdi  —  which,  though 
merely  novels  and  novelettes,  have  had  as  wide  and  far- 
reaching  an  iulliience  on  modern  thought  as  the  Ori- 
gin of  <S);6'r/VtS', -that  appeared  about  the  same  time,  and 
whicii  are  siudi,  for  simplicity  of  expression,  exposition, 
and  idea,  that  an  intelligent  jikiugliboy  can  get  all  the 
good  and  all  the  pleasure  from  them  almost  as  easily  as 
any  i)hil()sop!ier  or  sage. 

Such  was  Barty 's  (U'but  as  a  nuin  of  k'iters.  This  is  not 
tlic  place  to  criticise  his  litcM'ary  work,  nor  am  I  the  prop- 
er person  to  b)  so;  enough  has  been  written  already  about 
Barty  Josselin  during  his  lircliinc  to  lili  a  large  library — 
in  nearly  evcu-y  language  there  is.  I  tremble  to  tli'  k  of 
what  has  yet  to  follow  ! 


♦•  '  UATAri.AN.  RATAPLAN 


360 


I 


SardoHjix  cume  of  age  nearly  twelve  yearn  ago — what  a 
coming  of  age  that  was  the  reader  will  remember  well.  1 
shall  not  forget  its  celebration  at  jVIarsfield  ;  it  happened 
to  coincide  with  the  birth  of  15arty's  first  grandchild,  at 
that  very  house. 

1  will  now  go  back  to  Barty's  })rivate  life,  which  is  the 
sole  object  of  this  humble  attempt  at  book-making  on 
my  part. 

During  the  lu'xt  ten  years  Party's  literary  activity  was 
immense.  Beautiful  books  followed  each  other  in  rapid 
succession — and  so  did  beautiful  little  Bartys,  and  Leah's 
hands  were  full. 

And  as  each  book,  English  or  French,  was  more  beau- 
tiful than  the  last :  so  was  each  little  Barty,  male  or  fe- 
mal(\  All  over  Kensington  and  (■ampden  Hill — for  they 
took  (Iretna  Lodge,  next  door  to  Cornelys,  the  sculptor's — 
the  splemlor  of  these  little  l^artys,  their  size,  their  Iteau- 
ty,  their  health  a)id  high  spirits,  became  almost  a  joke, 
and  their  mother  becanu^  almost  a  comic  character  in 
consequence — like  the  old  lady  who  lived  in  a  shoe. 

Money  poured  in  with  a  profusion  i(i\\  writers  of  good 
books  have  ever  known  before,  and  every  penny  not  want- 
ed for  immediate  household  ex[)enses  was  pounced  upon 
by  Scatcherd  or  by  me  to  be  invested  in  the  manner  we 
tliought  best :  nous  avons  eu  la  nuiiii  heureuse  ! 

The  Josselins  kept  open  house,  and  money  was  not  to 
be  despised,  little  as  Barty  ever  thought  of  money. 

Then  evi'ry  autumn  the  entire  smalah  migrated  to  the 
coast  of  Nornuimly,  or  Picar'ly,  (u-  Brittany,  or  to  the 
Highlands  of  Inverness,  and  with  them  the  Scatcherds 
and  tlie  chronicler  of  these  happy  times — n  •{  l->  mention 
cats,  dogs,  and  squirrels,  ami  guine:' -  V/i'i^s.  and  ^>!)ito 
mice,  ami  birds  of  all  kinds,  froin  whifi'>  the  •hiU'roii 
wouhl  not  be  partetl,  and  the  real  care  oi  wiiioh,  both 


361 


10 

le 
Is 
111 
to 
'11 
-li 


at  liome  and  abroad,  ulti.uitoly  devolved  on  poor  Mrs. 
Josseliu — who  was  not  so  fond  of  animals  as  all  that — 
so  that  her  life  was  full  to  overtlowing  of  household 
cares. 

Another  duty  had  devolved  upon  her  also  :  that  of  an- 
swering the  passionate  letters  that  her  husband  received 
by  every  post  from  all  parts  of  tlie  world — es[)eeially 
America — and  which  ho  couhl  never  be  iudiiceil  to  an- 
swer himself.  Every  morning  regularly  he  would  begin 
his  day's  work  by  writing  "Yours  truly — B.  .losselin" 
on  quite  a  s  ;ore  of  s([uare  bits  of  ])a[)er,  to  be  sent  through 
the  post  to  fair  English  aiul  American  autogra})h  collect- 
ors who  forwarded  stam[)ed  envelopes,  and  sometimes 
photographs  of  themselves,  that  he  might  study  the  feat- 
ures of  those  who  loved  him  at  a  respectful  distance,  and 
who  so  frankly  told  their  love  ;  all  of  which  boriMl  Hiirty 
to  extinction,  and  was  a  source  of  endless  amusement  to 
his  wife. 

But  even  .she  was  annoyed  when  Ji  large  unstamped  or 
insufliciently  stamped  parcel  arrived  by  post  from  Ameri- 
ca, enclosing  a  photograph  of  her  husband  to  which  his 
signature  was  desired,  and  containing  no  stamps  to  fraiiV 
it  on  its  return  jounu;y  ! 

And  the  photographers  he  had  to  sit  to  I  and  the  in- 
terviewers, male  and  female,  to  whom  he  had  to  deny 
himself  I     Life  was  too  short  ! 

How  often  has  a  sturdy  laborer  or  arti-an  "om(>  up  to 
him,  as  he  and  I  walked  together,  with  : 

'"•  I  should  very  much  like  to  sliaUe  you  by  tbe  band, 
Mr.  Josselin,  if  1  migbt  make  ><»  bold,  sir  I" 

And  such  ai:  appeal  as  (bis  would  please  biiii  far  more 
than  the  nu)st  fervently  vr<;l'n  oiil  jxuiriiigs  of  the  fe- 
male hearts  he  had  toucher 

They,  of  course,  received   emlless  invitations   U)  stay 


363 


at  country-lionses  all  over  the  United  Kingdom,  where 
they  might  have  been  lionized  to  their  hearts'  content,  if 
such  had  been  their  wish  ;  but  these  they  never  accepted. 
They  never  spent  a  single  night  away  from  their  own 
house  till  most  of  their  children  were  grown  up — or  ever 
wanted  to  ;  and  every  year  they  got  less  and  less  into  the 
way  of  dining  out,  or  spending  the  evening  from  home — 
and  I  don't  wonder  ;  no  gayer  or  jollier  home  ever  was 
than  that  they  nnide  for  themselves,  and  each  otlier,  and 
their  intimate  friends  ;  not  even  at  Cornelys's,  next  door, 
was  better  music  to  be  heard ;  for  Barty  was  fricjids 
witli  al!  the  music -makers,  English  and  foreign,  who 
cater  for  us  in  and  out  of  the  season ;  even  they  read  his 
books,  and  uiulerstood  them;  and  they  sang  ami  played 
better  for  Barty — and  for  Cornelys,  next  door — tiian  even 
for  the  music-loving  multitude  who  lilled  their  pockets 
with  British  gold. 

And  the  diil'erence  between  Barty's  house  and  that  of 
Cornelys  was  that  at  the  former  the  gatherings  were 
smaller  and  more  intinuite — as  became  the  smaller  house 
— and  one  was  happiia*  tliere  in  consequence. 

Barty  gave  himself  up  entirely  to  his  writing,  and  left 
everything  else  to  his  wife.  (»r  to  me,  or  to  Scatcherd. 
She  was  really  a  motlior  to  him,  as  well  as  a  passionately 
loving  and  devoted  helpmeet. 

To  make  up  for  this,  whenever  she  was  ill,  which 
didn't  often  happen — except,  of  course,  when  she  had  a 
baby — he  forgot  all  liis  writing  in  his  anxiety  about  her; 
and  in  his  care  of  her.  and  his  solicitude  for  her  ease  anni 
comfort,  he  becanu'  (juite  a  motiierly  old  woman,  a  ])ettt-r 
nurse  than  Mrs.  Jones  or  Mi's.  ({ii)son — as  practical  and 
sensible  and  full  of  authority  as  Dr.  Knight  himself. 

And  when  it  was  all  over,  all  ids  aniiahle  carelessness 
ciuue  back,  and   with  it  his  genius,  his  school-boy  high 


363 


1  left 


spirits,  his  tomfooling,  his  romps  witli  his  children,  and 
his  utter  irresponsil)ilitv,  and  absolute  disdain  for  all  the 
ordinary  business  of  life  ;  and  the  happy,  genial  temper 
that  never  seemed  to  know  a  moment's  depression  or 
nourish  an  unkind  thought. 

Poor  Barty  !  what  would  he  have  done  without  us  all, 
and  what  should  we  liave  done  without  I5arty  ?  As  Seatch- 
erd  said  of  him,  "  lie's  having  his  jiortion  in  this  life." 

But  it  was  not  really  so. 

Then,  in  1870,  he  bought  that  charming  house,  Mans- 
field, by  the  Thames,  which  he  rechristened  MarsHeld  ; 
and  which  he — with  the  help  of  the  Scatcherds  and  my- 
self, for  it  became  our  hobby — made  into  one  of  the  most 
delightful  abodes  in  England.  If  was  the  real  home  for 
all  of  us  ;  I  really  think  it  is  one  of  the  loveliest  spots  on 
earth.  It  was  a  bargain,  hut  it  cost  a  lot  of  money  ;  al- 
together, never  was  money  better  spent — even  as  a  mere 
investment.  When  I  think  of  what  it  is  worth  now  ! 
Je  suis  homme  d'affaires  ! 

What  a  house-warming  that  was  on  the  very  day  that 
France  and  Germany  went  to  war;  we  little  guessed 
what  was  to  come  for  the  country  we  all  loved  so  dearly, 
or  we  should  iu)t  have  been  so  glad. 

I  am  conscious  that  all  this  is  rather  dull  reading. 
Alas!  Merry  England  is  a  devilish  dull  place  (!omi)ared 
to  foreign  parts — and  success,  res|)«'ctability.  and  domes- 
tic bliss  are  the  dullest  1  hi ugs  fo  write — or  read — alxuit 
that  I  know — and  with  inildh'  ag»»  to  follow  too  I 

It  was  during  that  first  sumimrat  Marstii-ld  that  Barty 
told  me  th*^  extniordinary  story  of  Martia,  and  I  really 
thought  he  h\d  gone  matl.  For  1  knew  him  to  be  t!:e 
nu)st  truthful  ]ierson  iim*-. 

Even  now  I  hardly  kutrw  what  to  think,  nor  did  Leah — 
nor  did  Barty  iumself  u\>  to  th<'  day  of  his  d».ilh. 


364 


He  showed  me  all  her  letters,  which  I  mdij  deem  it  ad- 
visable to  publish  some  day :  not  only  the  Bliize  sugges- 
tions for  his  books,  and  all  her  corrections ;  things  to 
occupy  him  for  life — all,  of  course,  in  his  own  handwrit- 
ing ;  but  many  letters  about  herself,  also  written  in  sleep 
and  by  his  own  iiand  ;  and  the  style  is  Barty's — not  the 
style  in  which  he  wrote  his  books,  and  which  is  not  to 
be  matched  ;  but  that  in  which  he  wrote  liis  Blaze  letters 
to  me. 

If  her  story  is  true — and  I  never  read  a  ])iece  of  doc- 
umentary evidence  more  convincing — these  letters  con- 
stitute the  most  astonishing  revelation  ever  yet  vouch- 
safed to  this  earth. 

But  her  story  cannot  be  true  I 

That  Barty's  version  of  his  relations  with  ''Tlie  Mar- 
tian" is  absolutely  sincere  it  is  impossible  to  doubt.  He 
was  quite  unconscious  of  the  genesis  of  every  book  he 
ever  wrote.  His  first  hint  of  every  one  of  them  was 
tiie  elaborately  worked  out  suggestion  he  found  bv  his 
bedside  in  tiie  morning — written  by  himself  in  his  sleep 
during  the  preceding  night,  with  his  k  wide  open, 
while  more  often  than  not  his  wife  anxiously  watched 
him  at  his  unconscious  work,  careful  not  to  wake  or  dis- 
turb him  in  any  way. 

Roughly  epitomized,  ^Fartia's  story  was  this  : 

For  an  immense  time  she  had  gone  through  countless 
incarnations,  from  the  lowest  form  to  the  highest,  in  the 
cold  and  dreary  planet  we  call  Mars,  the  outermost  of 
the  four  inhabited  worlds  of  our  systetn,  where  the  sun 
seems  no  bigger  than  an  orange,  and  wliich  but  for  its 
moist,  thin,  ricdi  atmosphert;  and  peculiar  nuignetic  con- 
ditions that  differ  from  ours  would  be  too  cold  above 
ground  for  human  or  aiiinud  or  vegetiiblc  life.  As  it 
is,  it  is  only  inhabited  no*  in  the  neighborhood  of  its 


365 


equator,  and  even  there  during  its  long  winter  it  is  colder 
and  m'ore  desolate  than  Cape  Horn  or  Spitzbergon — ex- 
cept that  the  shallow,  fresh-water  sea  does  not  freeze  ex- 
cept for  a  few  months  at  eitlicr  pole. 

All  these  incarnations  wen'  forgotten  by  her  ])nt  the 
last;  nothing  remained  of  tliein  all  but  a  vague  con- 
sciousness that  they  had  once  been,  until  their  cuhiiina- 
tion  in  what  would  be  in  Mars  th»'  t  (uivalent  of  a  woman 
on  our  earth. 

Man  in  Mars  is,  it  appears,  a  very  different  l)eing  from 
what  he  is  here.  He  is  amphibious,  and  descends  from 
no  monkey,  but  fi'om  a  small  animal  tliat  seems  to  be 
something  between  our  seal  and  our  sea-lion. 

According  to  Martia,  his  beauty  is  to  that  of  the  seal 
as  that  of  the  Theseus  or  Antinous  to  that  of  an  orang- 
outang. His  five  senses  are  extraordinarily  acute,  even 
the  sense  of  touch  in  his  webbed  fingers  and  toes  ;  and 
in  addition  to  these  he  possesses  a  sixth,  that  comes 
from  his  keen  and  unintermittent  sense  of  the  magnetic 
current,  which  is  far  stronger  in  Mars  than  on  the  earth, 
and  far  more  complicated,  ana  more  thoroughly  under- 
stood. 

When  any  object  is  too  delicate  and  minute  to  be  ex- 
amined by  the  sense  of  touch  and  sight,  the  Martian  shuts 
his  eyes  and  puts  it  against  the  pit  of  his  stonuich,  and 
knows  all  about  it,  even  its  inside. 

In  the  absolute  dark,  or  with  his  eyes  shut,  and  when 
he  stops  his  ears,  he  is  more  intensely  conscious  of  what 
immediately  surrounds  him  than  at  any  other  time,  ex- 
cept that  all  color-perception  ceases  ;  conscious  not  only 
of  material  o])jecfs.  Imt  of  what  is  j)assing  in  his  i'ellow- 
Martiiin's  mind — and  this  for  an  area  of  many  hundreds 
of  cubic  yards. 

In  the  course  of  its  evolutions  this  extraordinary  facul- 


866 


ty — which  exists  on  earth  in  a  rudimentary  state,  but  only 
among  some  birds  and  fish  and  insects  and  in  the  lower 
forms  of  animal  life — has  developed  the  Martian  mind  in 
a  direction  very  different  from  ours,  since  no  inner  life 
apart  from  the  rest,  no  privacy,  no  concealment  is  pos- 
sible except  at  a  distance  involving  absolute  isolation; 
not  even  thought  is  free  ;  yet  in  some  incouiprohensible 
way  there  is,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  a  really  greater  free- 
dom of  thought  than  is  conceivable  among  ourselves  :  ab- 
solute liberty  in  absolute  obedience  to  law,  a  j)aradox 
beyond  our  comprehension. 

Their  habits  are  as  simple  as  those  we  attribute  to  the 
cave  -  dwellers  during  the  prehistoric  periods  of  the 
earth's  existence.  But  their  moral  sense  is  so  far  in  ad- 
vance of  ours  that  we  haven't  even  a  terminology  by 
which  to  express  it. 

In  comparison,  the  highest  and  best  of  us  are  monsters 
of  iniquity  and  egoism,  cruelty  and  corruption  ;  and  our 
planet  (a  very  heaven  for  warmth  and  brilliancy  and 
beauty,  in  spite  of  earthquakes  and  cyclones  and  tor- 
nadoes) is  a  very  hell  through  the  creatures  that  people 
it — a  shambles,  a  place  of  torture,  a  grotesque  and  im- 
pure pandemonium. 

These  exemplary  Martians  Avear  no  clothes  but  the  ex- 
quisite fur  with  which  nature  has  endowed  them,  and 
which  constitutes  a  part  of  their  immense  beauty,  accord- 
ing to  Martia. 

They  feed  exclusively  on  edible  moss  and  roots  and 
submarine  seaweed,  which  they  know  how  to  grow  and  pre- 
pare and  preserve.  Except  for  heavy-winged  bat-liko 
birds,  and  big  fish,  which  they  have  domesticated  and 
use  for  their  own  purposes  in  an  incredible  manner  (in- 
carnating a  portion  of  themselves  and  their  conscious- 
ness at  will  in  their  bodies),  they  have  cleared  Mars  of 


367 


all  useless  and  harmful  and  mutually  destructive  forms 
of  animal  life.  A  sorry  fauna,  the  Martian — even  at  its 
best — and  a  flora  beneath  contempt,  coinjiared  to  ours. 

They  are  great  engineers  and  excavators,  great  irri- 
gators, great  workers  in  delicate  metal,  stone,  marble, 
and  precious  gems  (there  is  no  wood  to  speak  of);  great 
sculptors  and  decorators  of  the  beautiful  caves,  so  fanci- 
fully and  so  intricately  connected,  in  which  they  live, 
and  Avhicli  liave  taken  thousands  of  years  to  design  and 
excavate  and  ventilate  and  adorn,  and  which  they  warm 
and  light  up  at  will  in  a  beautiful  manner  by  means  of 
the  tremendous  magnetic  current. 

This  richly  parti-colored  light  is  part  of  their  mental 
and  moral  life  in  a  way  it  is  not  in  us  to  apprehend,  and 
has  its  exact  equivalent  in  souiul — aiul  vice  versa. 

They  have  no  language  of  words,  and  do  not  need  it, 
since  they  can  only  be  isolated  in  thought  from  each 
other  by  a  distance  greater  than  that  which  any  vocal 
sound  can  traverse  ;  but  their  organs  of  voice  and  hearing 
are  far  more  complex  and  perfect  than  ours,  and  their 
atmosphere  infinitely  more  conductive  of  phonal  vibra- 
tions. 

It  seems  that  everything  which  can  be  apprehended  by 
the  eye  or  hand  is  ca])able  of  absolute  sonorous  transla- 
tion :  light,  color,  texture,  shape  in  its  three  dimensions, 
weight,  and  density.  The  phonal  expression  aiul  com- 
prehension of  all  these  are  acquired  by  the  Martian  baby 
almost  as  soon  as  it  knows  how  to  swim  or  dive,  or  move 
upright  and  erect  on  dry  land  or  beneath  it ;  and  the 
mechanical  translation  of  such  expression  by  means  of 
wind  and  wire  and  sounding  texture  and  curved  surface 
of  extraordinary  elaboration  is  the  principal  busiiuvss  of 
the  Martian  life — an  art  by  which  all  the  comltined  })ast 
experience  and  future  aspirations  of  the  race  receive  the 


IMAGE  EVALUATION 
TEST  TARGET  (MT-3) 


'<^ 


6 


1= 

11.25 


ISO     ^^       ■■■ 

2.2 


2.0 


MUi. 

'Am. 


^  -$ 


V 


Hiotographic 

Sciences 
Corporation 


S3  WkSI  main  STRBIT 

WIBSTIII.N.Y.  MSIO 

(716)  •73-4S09 


4. 

0 


V 


368 


V 


fullest  utterance.  Here  again  personal  magnetism  plays 
an  enormous  part. 

And  it  is  by  means  of  this  long  and  patiently  evolved 
and  liiglily  trained  faculty  tliat  the  race  is  still  develop- 
ing towards  perfection  with  constant  stniin  and  et!ort — 
although  the  i)lanet  is  far  advanced  in  its  decadence  and 
within  measurable  distance  of  its  unhtness  for  life  of  any 
kind. 

All  is  so  evenly  and  harmoniously  balanced,  whether 
al)0ve  ground  or  beneath,  that  existence  is  full  of  joy  in 
spite  of  the  tremendous  strain  of  life,  in  spite  also  of  a 
dreariness  of  outlook,  on  barren  nature,  which  is  not  to 
be  matched  by  the  most  inhosjii table  regions  of  the  earth  ; 
aiid  death  is  looked  upon  as  the  crowning  joy  of  all,  al- 
though life  is  prolonged  by  all  the  means  in  their  power. 

For  when  the  life  of  the  body  ceases  and  the  body  it- 
self is  burned  and  its  ashes  scattered  to  the  winds  and 
waves,  the  infinitesimal,  im})onderablc,  and  indestructi- 
ble sonu^thing  loe  call  the  .wul  is  known  to  lose  itself  in 
a  sunbeam  aiul  make  for  the  sun,  with  all  its  memories 
about  it,  that  it  may  then  receive  further  development, 
fitting  it  for  other  systems  altogether  beyoiul  conception  ; 
and  the  longer  it  has  lived  in  Mars  the  better  for  its 
etermd  life  in  the  future. 

Hut  it  often,  on  its  journey  sunwards,  gets  entangled 
in  other  beams,  and  finds  its  way  to  some  intermediate 
planet — >[ercury,  Venus,  or  the  Earth  ;  and  putting  on 
llesh  and  blood  and  bone  once  more,  ami  losing  for  a 
spaces  all  its  knowledge  of  its  own  past,  it  has  to  undergo 
another  mortal  incarnation — a,  new  persoiud  e\[)erience, 
beginning  with  its  new  birth  ;  a  dream  and  a  forgetting, 
till  it  awakens  again  after  the  pangs  of  dissolution,  and 
finds  itself  a  step  further  on  the  way  to  freedom. 

Martia,  it  seems,  came  to  our  earth  in  a  shower  of 


869 


luliiito 

\n^  on 

for  ii 

(U'TJJJO 
ll'llCO, 

tting, 
I,  and 

'or  of 


shooting-stars  a  liundrod  years  a<^o.  Slio  had  not  lived 
her  full  nieasiin'  of  years  in  ^Fars  ;  slie  had  eleeted  to  he 
suppressed,  throuuh  some  unfitness,  pliysieal  or  mental  or 
moral,  which  rendered  it  inex})edient  that  dhc  should  he- 
come  a  mother  of  >fartians,  for  they  are  very  particular 
ahout  that  sort  of  tiling  in  ^Fars  :  \v(i  shall  have  to  he  so 
here  some  dav,  or  else  we  shall  degeiu'rate  ami  hecome 
extinct ;  or  even  worse  I 

Many  Afartian  souls  come  to  our  planet  in  this  way,  it 
seems,  and  hasten  to  incarnate  themselves  in  as  promis- 
ing unl)orn  though  just  hegotten  men  and  women  a«  they 
find,  tliat  tliey  may  the  sooner  he  free  to  hie  them  sun- 
wards with  all  their  collected  nuMUories. 

According  to  AFartia,  luost  of  tlie  i)est  aiul  finest  of  our 
race  have  souls  that  have  lived  forgotten  lives  in  Mars. 
But  Martia  wj  s  in  no  hurry  ;  she  was  full  of  intelligent 
niriosity,  and  for  ten  years  she  went  up  and  down  the 
earth,  revelling  in  the  oi)en  air,  lodging  herself  in  the 
brains  and  bodies  of  birds,  beasts,  and  lishes,  insects, 
and  animals  of  all  kiiuls — like  a  hermit  crab  in  a  shell 
that  belongs  to  another — but  without  the  slightest  incon- 
venience to  the  legitimate  owners,  who  wen*  alwavsfiuite 
unconscious  of  lu  r  presence,  although  she  nuide  what 
use  she  could  of  wiiat  wits  thev  had. 

Thus  she  had  a  heavenly  time  on  this  sunlit  earth  of 
ours — now  a  worn),  now  a  ])orp()ise.  now  a  sea-gull  or  a 
dragon-lly,  now  some  lleet-l'oote(|,  keen-eyed  (juadruped 
that  did  not  live  by  slaying,  for  she  had  a  horror  of 
bloodshed. 

She  could  only  go  where  these  creatures  chose  to  take 
her,  since  she  had  no  })ower  to  control  theiv  acti(»ns  in 
the  slightest  degree  ;  but  she  saw,  heard,  smelled  ami 
touchecl  and  tasted  with  their  organs  of  se?>se,  and  was  as 
conscious  of  their  animal  life  as  they  were  themselves. 

24 


870 


k,f 


Her  descriptioii  of  tliis  pluiso  of  lior  eiirtlily  oareer  is 
full  of  extmordiiiiiry  interest,  jmd  soiiictinies  extremely 
funny — tliou</h  quite  unconsciously  so,  no  doubt.  For 
instance,  she  tells  how  h;4)i)y  slie  once  was  when  she  in- 
habited a  small  brown  Pomeranian  do.i^  called  "Schnap- 
fel,"  in  Cologne,  and  belonging  to  a  Jewish  family  who 
dealt  in  old  clothes  near  the  Cathedral  ;  and  how  she 
loved  them  ami  looketl  up  to  them — how  she  revelled  in 
fried  fish  and  the  smell  of  it — and  in  all  the  stinks  in 
every  street  of  the  famous  city — all  except  one,  that  arose 
from  llerr  Johann  Maria  Farina's  renowned  emporium 
in  the  Julichs  Platz,  which  so  offended  the  canine  nos- 
trils that  she  had  to  give  up  inhabiLing  that  simdl  Pom- 
eranian dog  forever,  etc. 

Then  she  took  to  man,  and  inhabited  ?Man  and  woman, 
and  especially  child,  in  all  })arts  of  the  globe  for  many 
years;  and,  finally,  for  the  last  fil'ly  or  sixty  yejirs  or 
so,  sho  settled  herself  exclusively  among  V.  c  best  and 
healthiest  English  she  could  find. 

She  took  a  great  fancy  to  the  Kohans,  who  are  singular- 
ly well  endowed  in  health  of  miiul  and  body,  and  physical 
beauty,  and  happiness  of  temper.  She  became  especially 
fond  of  the  ill-fated  but  amiaide  Lord  Hunswiek — Harty's 
father.  Then  through  him  she  knew  Antoinette,  and 
loved  her  so  well  that  she  determined  to  incarnate  her- 
self at  last  as  their  child  ;  but  she  had  become  very 
cautious  and  worldly  during  her  wandering  life  on  earth, 
and  felt  that  she  would  not  bo  ([uite  happy  either  as  a 
man  or  a  wonum  in  Western  Europe  unless  she  were 
reborn  in  holy  wedlock  —  a  concession  sbe  made  to 
our  British  prejudices  in  favor  of  resjiectability  ;  she 
describes  herself  as  the  oidy  Martian  Philistine  and 
snob. 

Evil  communications  corrupt  good  manners,  and  poor 


371 


ffuliir- 

ysical 

)0('i}illy 

0,  iiiul 
lier- 
10  very 
ciirtli, 
vv  518  a 
wore 
ado  to 
;  slio 
10   iiiid 


Martiji,  to  her  infmito  sorrow  and  solf-r*  -roacli,  was  oon- 
scious  of  a  sad  loworini;  of  her  moral  tone  after  this  h)n<j: 
freqiieiitatioii  of  tlie  best  eartlily  huiuaii  beings  —  even 
the  l)est  English. 

Slie  grew  to  admire  worh'ly  success,  rank,  social  dis- 
tinction, the  perisliable  beauty  of  outward  form,  the  lust 
of  the  llesh  and  the  pride  of  the  eye — tiu^  pomps  and 
vanities  of  this  wicked  world  —  and  to  basely  long  for 
these  ill  her  own  person  ! 

Then  when  Barty  was  born  she  loved  to  inhabit  his 
singularly  well  constituted  little  body  better  than  any 
other,  and  to  identify  herself  with  his  happy  child-life, 
and  enjoy  his  singularly  perfect  senses,  and  sleep  his 
beautiful  sleep,  and  revel  in  the  dreams  he  so  completely 
forgot  when  he  wcVe — reminiscent  dreams,  that  she  was 
actually  able  to  weave  out  of  the  unconscious  brain  that 
was  his:  absolutely  using  his  dornuint  organs  of  memo- 
ry for  pur})oses  of  her  own,  to  remember  and  relive  her 
own  past  pleasures  and  pains,  so  sensitively  and  high- 
ly organized  was  he ;  and  to  her  immense  surprise  she 
found  she  could  make  him  feel  her  presence  even  when 
awake  by  means  of  the  magnetic  sense  that  pervaded 
her  strongly  as  it  pervades  all  j\[artian  souls,  till  they  re- 
incarnate themselves  among  us  and  forget. 

And  thus  he  was  conscious  of  the  north  whenever  she 
enjoyed  the  hospitality  of  his  young  body. 

She  stuck  to  him  for  many  years,  till  he  olfended  her 
taste  by  his  looseness  of  life  as  a  (Juardsman  (for  she  was 
extremely  straitiaced) ;  and  she  inhabited  him  no  more 
for  somo  time,  though  she  often  watched  him  through 
the  eyes  of  others,  and  always  loved  him  and  lamented 
sorely  over  his  faults  and  follies. 

Then  one  memorable  night,  in  the  energy  of  her  de- 
spair at  his  resolve  to  slip  that  splendid  body  of  his,  she 


373 


was  able  to  inflnenoe  him  in  his  sleep,  and  saved  his 
life;  and  all  her  love  came  baek  tenfold. 

She  had  never  been  able  to  impose  a  fraction  of  her 
will  on  any  being,  animal  or  human,  that  she  had  ever 
inhabited  on  earth  until  tluit  memoral)le  night  in  Ma- 
lines,  where  she  made  him  write  at  her  dictation. 

Then  she  conceived  an  immense  desire  that  he  should 
marry  the  splendid  Julia,  whom  she  had  often  inhabited 
also,  that  she  might  one  day  be  a  child  of  his  l)y  such  a 
mother,  and  go  through  her  earthly  incariuiti«»n  in  the 
happiest  conceivable  circumstances  ;  but  herein  she  was 
balked  by  Barty's  instinctive  preference  for  Leah,  and 
again  gave  him  uj)  in  a  huff. 

But  she  soon  took  to  inhabiting  Leah  a  great  deal, 
and  found  lier  just  as  much  to  her  taste  for  her  (mvu 
future  earthly  mother  as  the  divine  Julia  herself,  and 
made  up  her  mind  she  would  make  Uavty  great  ami 
famous  by  a  clever  management  of  his  very  extraordi- 
nary brains,  of  which  she  had  discovered  the  hidden  ca- 
pacity, and  inlluence  the  earth  for  its  good — for  she  had 
grown  to  love  the  beautiful  earth,  in  spite  of  its  iniquities 
— and  finally  be  a  child  of  Barty  and  Leah,  every  new  child 
of  whom  seemed  an  improvement  on  the  last,  as  though 
practice  nuule  perfect. 

Such  is,  roughly,  the  story  of  Martia. 

There  is  no  doubt — both  Barty  and  Leah  agreed  with 
me  in  this — that  it  is  an  easy  story  to  invent,  though  it 
is  curiously  convincing  to  read  in  the  original  shape,  with 
all  its  minute  details  and  their  verisimilitude;  but  even 
then  there  is  nothing  in  it  that  the  author  of  ^Sardonyx 
could  not  have  easily  imagined  and  made  more  convinc- 
ing still. 

He  declared  that  all  through  life  on  awaking  from  nis 
night's  sleep   In^  always  felt  conscious  ol'   having  had 


373 


extraordinary  dreams — even  a.^  a  child — bnt  that  he  for- 
got them  in  the  very  act  of  waking,  in  spite  of  strenuous 
efforts  to  recall  them.  But  now  and  again  on  sinking 
into  sleep  the  vague  memory  of  those  forgotten  dreams 
would  come  back,  and  they  were  all  of  a  stranf':^  life 
under  new  conditions  —  just  such  a  life  as  Martia  had 
described — where  arabesques  of  artificial  light  and  inter- 
woven curves  of  subtle  sound  had  a  significance  undreamt 
of  by  mortal  eyes  or  ears,  and  served  as  conductors  to  ii 
heavenly  bliss  unknown  to  earth — revelations  denied  to 
us  here,  or  weshouhl  be  very  dilferent  beings  from  what 
we  most  unhj)})pily  are. 

He  thought  it  quite  possible  that  his  brain  in  sleep  had 
at  last  become  so  active  through  the  exhausting  and  de- 
pleting medical  regime  that  he  went  through  in  ^lalines 
that  it  actually  was  able  to  dictate  its  will  to  his  body, 
and  that  everything  might  have  happened  to  him  as  it 
did  then  and  afterwards  without  any  su])ernatural  or 
ultranatural  agency  whatever — without  a  ^Fartia ! 

lie  might,  in  short,  have  led  a  kind  of  dual  lifj,  and 
Martia  might  be  a  simple  fancy  or  invention  of  his 
brain  in  an  abnormal  state  of  activity  during  slumber  ; 
and  both  Leah  and  I  inclined  to  this  belief  (but  for  ii 
strange  thing  which  hap})ened  later,  and  which  I  will  tell 
in  due  time).  Indeed,  it  all  seems  so  silly  and  far-fetched, 
so  "  out  of  the  question,"  that  one  feels  almost  ashamed 
at  bringing  this  Martia  into  a  serious  biogra[)hy  of  a 
great  nuin — un  conte  a  dormir  debout !  But  you  must 
wait  for  the  cud. 

Anyhow,  the  singular  fact  remains  that  in  some  way 
inexplicable  to  himself  Barty  has  inlluenccfl  the  world 
in  a  direction  which  it  never  entered  his  thoughts  even 
to  conceive,  so  far  as  he  remembered. 

Think  of  all  he  has  done. 


374 


if 

h 


Tic  lias  rol)l)0(l  Deatli  of  nearly  all  its  terrors  ;  oven  for 
the  youii<^  It  is  no  longer  the  grisly  ])liaiit(>ni  it  oneo  was 
for  ourselves,  but  rather  of  an  aspect  mellow  and  benign; 
for  to  the  most  sceptical  be  (and  only  be)  bas  restored 
that  absolute  conviction  of  an  indestructible  germ  of  Im- 
mortality within  us,  born  of  remembrance  made  perfect 
and  complete  after  dissolution  :  he  alone  has  built  the 
golden  bridge  in  the  middle  of  which  science  and  faith  can 
shake  hands  over  at  least  one  common  possibility — nay, 
one  common  certainty  for  those  who  have  read  him  aright. 

There  is  no  longer  despair  in  bereavement — all  be- 
reavement is  but  a  half  jiarting  ;  there  is  no  real  })arting 
except  for  those  who  survive,  and  the  longest  earthly  life 
is  but  a  span.  Whatever  the  future  may  be,  the  i)ast 
will  be  ours  forever, and  that  means  our  punishment  and 
our  reward  and  reunion  with  those  we  loved.  It  ia  a 
happy  phrase,  that  Avhich  closes  the  career  of  Sardonyx. 
It  has  become  as  universal  as  the  Lord's  Prayer ! 

To  think  that  so  simple  and  obvious  a  solution  should 
have  lain  hidden  all  these  aH)ns,  to  turn  up  at  last  as 
though  by  chance  in  a  little  illustrated  story-book  I  What 
a  nugget ! 

Oh  avions-nous  done  la  tete  et  les  yeux  ? 

Physical  pain  and  the  origin  of  evil  seem  the  only 
(j.iestions  with  which  he  has  not  been  able  to  grapple. 
And  yet  if  those  dilheulties  are  ever  dealt  with  and  mas- 
tered and  overcome  for  us  it  can  only  be  by  some  fol- 
lower of  liarty's  methods. 

It  is  true,  no  doubt,  that  through  him  suicide  has 
become  the  normal  way  out  of  our  troubles  wheii  these 
are  beyond  remedy.  I  will  not  express  ;iny  opinion  as 
to  the  ethical  signiticance  of  this  admitted  result  of  his 
teaching,  which  nuiny  of  us  still  find  it  so  hard  to  recon- 
cile with  their  conscieuce. 


375 


T!ion,  by  ii  <U'xU'roiis  inaiiipuhition  of  our  synii)jithi('s 
that  imiouiitt^  to  ubsoliitt'  eoiijuriiii;-,  hv  lias  givon  the 
(U'ath-l)h)\v  to  all  cruelty  that  servos  for  our  aniusoinent, 
and  killed  the  pride  and  [)oin[)  and  einMnnstanoo  of  glo- 
rious sport,  and  niadc^  them  ridiculous  with  his  lusty 
lauj^di  ;  even  the  hull-tiixhts  in  Spain  are  coming  to  an 
end,  and  all  through  a  Sj)anish  translation  of  Lifc- 
blood.  All  the  cruelties  of  the  world  are  bound  to  fol- 
low in  tijne,  ami  this  not  so  much  because  they  are  cruel 
as  because  they  are  ridiculous  and  mean  and  ugly,  and 
would  make  us  laugh  if  they  didn't  make  us  cry. 

And  to  whom  but  Uarty  Josselin  do  we  owe  it  that 
our  race  is  on  an  average  already  from  four  to  six  inches 
taller  than  it  was  thirty  years  ago,  men  and  wonuni  alike; 
that  strength  and  beauty  are  rapidly  becoming  the  rule 
among  us,  and  weakness  and  ugliness  the  exception? 

He  has  been  hard  on  these  ;  he  has  been  cruel  to  be 
kind,  and  they  have  received  notice  to  quit,  and  been 
generously  compensate<l  in  advance,  I  think  !  Who  in 
these  days  would  dare  to  enter  the  holy  .state  of  wed- 
lock unless  they  were  pronounced  physically,  morally, 
and  mentally  fit — to  procreate  their  kind — not  oidy  by 
their  own  conscience,  but  by  the  common  consent  of  all 
who  know  them  ?  And  that  beauty,  hejdth,  and  strength 
are  a  part  of  that  litness,  and  old  age  a  bar  to  it,  who 
would  dare  deny  ^  /- 

I'm  no  Adonis  myself.  I've  got  a  long  upper  lip  and 
an  Irish  kink  in  my  nose,  inherited  })erhaps  from  some 
maternally  ancestral  Hlnke  of  Derrydown,  who  may  have 
been  a  pro])er  blackguard  I  And  that  kink  should  be  now, 
no  doubt,  the  lawful  property  of  some  rutliunly  cattle- 
houghing  mooidighter.  whose  nose — which  should  have 
been  mine— is  probably  as  straight  as  Barty's.  For  in 
Ireland  are  to  be  found  the  handsomest  and  ugliest  peo- 


376 


pie  ill  ull  firc'jit  liritaiii,  and  in  Great  Hritain  the  liaiid- 
soiiiest  and  ugliest  people  in  the  whole  vorld. 

Anyhow,  I  have  known  my  place.  I  have  not  per- 
petuated that  kink,  and  with  it,  possihly,  the  hase  and 
cowardly  instincts  of  which  it  was  meant  to  he  the  out- 
ward and  visihle  sign — though  it  isn't  in  my  case — that 
my  fellow-men  might  give  me  a  wide  herth. 

Leah's  girlish  instinct  was  a  right  one  when  she  said 
me  nay  that  afternoon  hy  the  Chelsea  i»ier — for  how 
could  she  see  inside  me,  poor  child  ?  J  low  could  15eauty 
guess  the  Beast  was  a  Prince  in  disguise  ?  It  was  no 
fairy-tale  ! 

Things  have  got  mixed  up  ;  hut  they're  all  coming 
right,  and  all  through  Barty  .Tosselin. 

And  what  vulgar  pride  and  narrownesses  and  mean- 
nesses and  vanities  and  uglinesses  of  life,  in  mass  and 
class  and  individual,  are  now  inipossiMe  !  —  and  all 
through  Barty  Josselin  and  his  (piaint  ironies  of  pen  and 
pencil,  forever  tremhling  hetween  tears  and  laugliter, 
with  never  a  cynical  spark  or  a  hint  of  bitterness. 

How  he  has  held  his  own  against  the  world  I  how  he 
has  scourged  its  wickedness  and  folly,  this  gigantic  op- 
timist, who  never  wrote  a  single  line  in  his  own  defence  ! 

How  quickly  their  laugh  recoiled  on  those  early  laugh- 
ers !  and  how  Barty  alone  laughed  well  because  he  laugh- 
ed the  last,  and  taught  the  laughers  to  laugh  on  his 
side  !  People  thought  he  was  always  laughing.  It  was 
not  so. 


liand- 


part  •Mtntb 


"Cara  devlm  soboles,  inaguinn  Jovls  incrementum." 

— Viuciir,. 

Tin.:  immense  fame  and  suc-oess  that  Jiarty  Josselin 
acliieved  were  to  liini  a  sonrce  of  constant  disquiet.  Ho 
could  take  neither  pride  nor  pleasure  in  what  seemed  to 
him  not  his  ;  he  tiiought  himself  a  fraud. 

Yet  only  the  mere  skeleton  of  his  work  was  built  up 
for  him  by  his  demon  ;  all  the  beauty  of  form  and  color, 
all  the  grace  of  movement  and  outer  garb,  are  absolutely 
his  own. 

It  has  been  noticed  how  few  eminent  men  of  letters 
were  intimate  with  the  Josselins,  though  the  best  among 
them— except,  of  course,  Thomas  Carlyle— have  been  so 
enthusiastic  and  outsi)oken  in  their  love  and  admiration 
of  his  work. 

lie  was  never  at  his  ease  in  their  society,  and  felt  him- 
self a  kind  of  charlatan. 

The  fact  is,  the  general  talk  of  such  men  was  often 
apt  to  be  over  his  head,  as  it  would  have  been  over  mine, 
and  often  made  hiiii  painfully  dillident  and  shy.  Jle 
needn't  have  been;  he  little  knew  the  kind  of  feeling  he 
inspired  among  the  highest  and  best. 

Why,  one  day  at  the  Marathonceum,  the  first  and 
foremost  of  them  all,  the  champion  smiter  of  the  Philis- 
tines, the  apostle  of  culture  and  sweetness  and  light, 
told  me  that,  putting  Barty's  books  out  of  the  question. 


378 


he  always  got  inoro  profit  and  pleasure  out  of  Party's 
society  tiiau  that  of  any  man  he  knew. 

**  It  does  me  good  to  be  in  the  same  room  with  him; 
the  freshness  of  the  man,  his  voiee,  his  aspect,  his 
splendid  vitality  and  mother-wit,  his  boyish  si)irit,  and 
the  towering  genius  behind  it  all.  I  only  wish  to  good- 
ness I  was  an  intimate  friend  of  his  as  you  are;  it  would 
be  a  liberal  education  to  me!'* 

Hut  Harty's  reverence  and  admiration  for  true  scholar- 
ship and  great  literary  culture  in  others  amounted  to  ab- 
solute awe,  and  tilled  him  with  self-distrust. 

There  is  no  doubt  that  until  he  was  universally  ac- 
cepted, the  crudeness  of  his  literary  method  was  duly 
criticised  with  great  severity  by  those  professional  liter- 
ary critics  who  sometimes  carp  with  such  a  big  mouth 
at  their  betters,  and  occasionally  kill  the  Keatses  of  this 
world  ! 

In  writing,  as  in  everything  else,  he  was  an  amateur, 
and  more  or  less  remained  one  for  life;  but  the  greatest 
of  his  time  accepted  him  at  once,  and  laughed  and  wept, 
and  loved  him  for  his  obvious  faults  .is  well  as  for  his 
qualities.  Tons  les  genres  sont  bons,  hormis  le  genre  en- 
nuyeux !  And  Barty  was  so  delightfully  the  reverse  of  a 
bore  ! 

Dear  me !  what  nuitters  it  how  faultlessly  we  paint  or 
write  or  sing  if  no  one  will  care  to  look  or  read  or  lis- 
ten ?  He  is  all  fault  that  hath  no  fault  at  all,  and  we 
poor  outsiders  all  but  yawn  in  his  face  for  his  pains. 

They  should  only  paint  and  Avrite  and  sing  for  each 
other,  these  impeccables,  who  so  despise  success  and  re- 
vile the  successful .  How  do  they  live,  I  wonder  ?  Do 
they  take  in  each  other's  washing,  or  review  each  other's 
books  ? 

It  edifies  one  to  see  what  a  lot  of  trouble  these  derid- 


379 


[Party's 

h  liini; 
ft,  his 
it,  and 

',  would 

;cholar- 
l1  to  ab- 

ally  ac- 
as  duly 
al  liter- 
mouth 
5  of  this 

mateur, 
greatest 
d  wept, 
for  his 
3nre  eu- 
»rse  of  a 

paint  or 

I  or  lis- 

aud  we 

IlllS. 

or  each 

and  re- 

cr?    Do 

other's 

e  derid" 


ers  of  other  people's  popuhirity  will  often  take  to  adver- 
tise themselves,  and  how  tiiey  yearn  for  that  popular  ac- 
claim they  so  scornfully  denounce. 

Barty  was  not  a  well-re.id  man  hy  any  means;  his 
scholarship  was  that  of  an  idle  French  hoy  who  leaves 
school  at  seventeen,  after  having  been  plucked  for  a 
cheap  French  degree,  and  goes  straightway  into  her 
Majesty's  Household  Brigade. 

At  the  beginning  of  his  literary  career  it  would  cut  him 
to  the  qui(!k  to  find  himself  alluded  to  as  that  inspired 
Anglo-dallic  bulfoon,  the  ex-(iuardsnuin,  whose  real  vo- 
cation, when  he  wasn't  twaddling  about  the  music  of  the 
spheres,  or  writing  moral  French  books,  was  to  be  Mr. 
Toole's  understudy. 

He  was  even  impressed  by  the  smartness  of  th»»se  sec- 
ond-rate decadents,  French  and  English,  who  so  gloried 
in  their  own  degeneracy — as  though  one  were  to  glory  in 
scrofula  or  rickets ;  those  unpleasant  little  anthropoids 
with  the  sexless  little  muse  ami  the  <lirty  little  Kros,  who 
would  ride  their  angry,  jealous  little  tilt  at  liim  in  the 
vain  hope  of  provoking  some  retort  which  would  have 
lifted  them  up  to  glory  !  Where  are  they  now  ?  He  has 
improved  them  all  away  I  Who  ever  hears  of  decadents 
nowadays  ? 

Then  there  were  the  grubs  of  firub  Street,  who  sonu;- 
times  manage  to  squirt  a  drop  from  their  slime-bags  <ui  to 
the  swiftly  pasiing  boot  that  scorns  to  s(juash  them.  He 
had  no  notion  of  what  manner  of  creatures  they  really 
were,  these  gentles  !  He  did  not  meet  them  at  any  club 
he  belonged  to — it  was  not  likely.  Clubs  have  a  way  of 
blackballing  grubs — especially  grubs  that  are  out  of  the 
common  grubby;  nor  did  he  sit  down  to  dinner  with 
them  at  any  dinner-table,  or  come  across  them  at  any 
house  he  was  by  way  of  frequenting ;   but  he  imagined 


880 


1^; 


they  were  quite  important  persons  because  they  did  not 
sign  their  articles  I  and  he  quite  mistook  t^lieir  place  in 
the  economy  of  creation.   O'etait  un  naif,  le  beau  Josselin  I 

Hig  fleas  have  little  fleas,  and  they've  got  to  put  up 
with  them  !  There  is  no  "poudre  insecticide"  for  liter- 
}iry  vermin — and  more's  the  pity  !  ((lood  heavens !  what 
would  tile  generous  and  delicate-minded  Harty  say,  if  he 
were  alive,  at  my  delivering  myself  in  this  unworthy 
fashion  about  tlicse  long-forgotten  assailants  of  his,  and 
at  my  age  too — he  who  never  penned  a  line  in  retaliation  I 
He  would  say  I  was  the  most  unseemly  grul  of  them  all, 
and  he  would  be  quite  right;  so  I  am  just  now,  and 
ought  to  know  better — but  it  amuses  me.) 

Then  there  were  the  melodious  bardlets  who  imitate 
those  who  imitate  those  wiio  imitate  the  forgotten  minor 
poets  of  the  olden  time  and  log-roll  each  other  in  quaint 
old  English.  They  did  not  log-roll  Barty,  whom  they 
thought  coarse  and  vulgar,  and  wrote  to  that  eflfect  in 
very  plain  English  that  was  not  old,  but  quite  up  to  date. 

"  How  splendidly  they  write  verse  I"  he  would  say, 
and  actually  once  or  twice  he  would  pick  up  one  or  two 
of  their  cheap  little  archaic  mannerisms  and  proudly  use 
them  as  his  own,  and  be  quite  angry  to  find  that  Leah  had 
carefully  expunged  them  in  her  copy. 

**Afair  and  (jracious  gjirden  indeed  !"  says  Leah.  *'  I 
won't  have  you  use  such  ridiculous  words,  Barty — you 
mean  a  pvi'ltif  garden,  and  you  shall  say  so ;  or  even  a 
beautiful  garden  if  you  like  ! — and  no  nun'e  '  nianifold^s/ 
and  ' tJiere-anents,'  and  'in  veriest  sooths,'  and  "waters 
wan/  and  '  wan  waters/  aiul  all  that.  I  won't  stand  it ; 
they  don't  suit  your  style  at  all !" 

She  and  Scatcherd  and  I  between  us  soon  laughed  him 
out  of  these  innocent  little  literary  vagaries,  and  he  re- 
mained coutout  with  the  homely  words  he  had  inherited 


381 


J  did  not 
place  in 
Josselin  I 
0  put  up 
for  liter- 
US  !  what 
say,  it*  he 
iiiworthy 
:  his,  and 
taliation  I 
them  all, 
now,  and 

0  imitate 
en  minor 
in  quaint 
lom  they 
effect  in 
p  to  date. 
)uld  say, 
ue  or  two 
3udly  use 
Leah  had 

leah.  "  1 
u'ty — you 
jr  even  a 
an  if  olds, 
"  wafers 
stand  it; 

•^iied  him 
id  he  re- 
inherited 


from  his  barbarian  ancestors  in  England  (they  speak  good 
English,  our  barbarians),  and  the  simple  phrasing  he  had 
learnt  from  M.  Durosier's  classe  do  litrcniture^at  the  In- 
stitution lirossard. 

One  language  helps  another;  even  the  smattering  of  n 
dead  language  is  better  than  no  extra  language  at  all,  and 
that's  why,  at  such  cost  of  time  and  labor  and  patenuil 
cash,  we  learn  to  smatter  (frock  and  Latin,  1  suppose. 
"Anna  virum()ue  cano" — "Tityre  tu  patulie" — **  M;e- 
cenas  atavis" — "Mi/rtr  (ttih"' — and  there  you  are  I  It 
sticks  in  the  memory,  and  it's  as  simple  as  "  How  d'ye  do  ?" 

Anyhow,  it  is  pretty  generally  admitted,  both  here  and 
in  France,  that  for  grace  and  ease  and  elegance  and  ab- 
solute clearness  combined,  Harty  Josselin's  literary  style 
has  never  been  surpassed  and  very  seldom  e(jualled  ;  and 
whatcer  his  other  faults,  when  he  was  at  his  ease  he 
had  the  same  graceful  gift  in  his  talk,  both  French  and 
English. 

It  might  be  worth  while  my  translating  here  the  record 
of  an  impression  nuule  by  Uarty  and  his  surrouiulings 
on  a  very  accomplished  Frenchman,  M.  Paroly,  of  the 
Delxffs,  who  paid  him  a  visit  in  the  summer  of  LSO!), 
at  (/ampden  Hill. 

I  may  mention  that  Barty  hated  to  be  interviewed  and 
questioned  about  his  literary  work — he  declared  he  was 
afraid  of  being  found  out. 

But  if  once  the  interviewer  managed  to  evade  the  lynx- 
eyed  Leah,  who  had  a  horror  of  him,  and  get  inside  the 
studio,  and  make  good  his  footing  there,  and  were  a  de- 
cently pleasant  fellow  to  boot,  Harty  would  sOoii  get  over 
his  aversion — utterly  forget  he  was  being  interviewed — 
and  talk  as  to  an  old  friend  ;  especially  if  the  reviewer 
were  a  Freuclnnan  or  an  American. 

The  interviewer  is  an  insidious  and  wily  person,  and 


382 


often  presents  himself  to  the  soft-hearted  celebrity  in 
such  humble  and  pathetic  cruise  that  one  reaily  hasn't 
the  courage  to  snub  him.  He  has  come  sucli  a  long  way 
for  such  a  little  thing  I  it  i-  such  a  lowly  function  he 
plies  at  the  foot  of  that  tall  tree  whose  top  you  reached 
at  a  single  bound  !  And  he  is  supposed  to  be  a  ''gentle- 
man," and  has  no  otlier  means  of  keeping  body  and  soul 
together !  Tiien  he  is  so  prostrate  in  admiration  before 
your  Immensity.  .  .  . 

So  you  give  way,  and  out  comes  the  little  note-book, 
and  out  comes  the  little  cross-examination. 

As  a  rule,  you  are  none  the  worse  and  tlie  world  is  none 
the  better;  we  know  all  about  you  already — all,  at  least, 
that  we  want  to  know  ;  we  have  heard  it  all  before,  over 
ur  d  over  again.  But  a  poor  fellow-crc  ^tture  has  earned  his 
cruct,  and  goes  home  the  happier  for  having  talked  to  you 
about  yourself  and  been  treated  like  a  man  and  a  brother. 

I5ut  sometimes  the  reviewer  is  very  terrible  indeed  in 
his  jaunty  vulgarization  of  your  distinguished  person- 
ality, and  you  have  to  wince  and  redden,  and  rue  the  day 
you  let  him  inside  your  house,  and  live  down  those  light 
familiar  paragraphs  in  which  he  describes  you  and  the 
way  you  dress  and  how  you  look  and  what  jolly  things 
you  say ;  and  on  what  free  and  easy  terms  he  is  with  you, 
of  all  people  in  the  world  ! 

liut  the  most  terrible  of  all  is  the  pleasant  gentleman 
from  America,  who  has  yearned  to  know  you  for  ao  many 
years,  and  comes  perhaps  with  a  letter  of  introduction — 
or  even  without ! — not  to  interview  you  or  write  about 
you  (good  heavens !  he  hates  and  scorns  that  modern 
pest,  the  interviewer),  but  to  sit  at  your  feet  aiul  wor- 
ship at  your  shrine,  and  tell  you  of  all  the  good  you  have 
done  him  and  his,  all  the  hapi)iness  you  have  given  them 
all— **  the  debt  of  a  lifetime  !" 


m. 


383 


ebrity  in 
ly  hasn't 
long  way 
iction  he 
I  reached 
''gentle- 
and  soul 
)n  before 

ote-book, 

d  is  none 
at  least, 
ore,  over 
arned  his 
ed  to  you 
,  brother, 
ndced  in 
[  person- 
3  the  day 
lose  light 
and  the 
ly  things 
ivith  you, 

antleman 
•  so  many 
uction — 
ite  about 
modern 
[ind  wor- 
you  have 
»'en  them  ^ 


And  you  let  yourself  go  before  him,  and  so  do  your 
family,  and  so  do  your  old  friends  :  is  he  not  also  a  friend, 
though  not  an  old  one  ?  You  part  with  him  almost  in  sor- 
row, he's  CO  nice  !  And  in  three  weeks  some  kind  per- 
son sends  you  from  the  other  side  such  a  printed  account 
of  you  and  yours — so  abominaldy  true,  so  abominably 
false — that  the  remembrance  of  it  makes  you  wake  up  in 
the  dead  of  night,  and  most  unjustly  loathe  an  entire 
continent  for  breeding  and  harboring  sucli  a  shameless 
type  of  press  reptile  ! 

I  feel  hard-hearted  towards  the  interviewer,  I  own.  I 
wish  him,  and  those  who  employ  him,  a  better  trade; 
and  a  better  taste  to  whoever  reads  what  he  writes. 
But  Barty  could  be  hard-hearted  to  nobody,  and  always 
regretted  having  granted  the  interview  when  he  saw  the 
published  outcome  of  it. 

Fortunately,  M.  Paroly  was  decently  discreet. 

"  I've  got  a  Frenchman  coming  this  afternoon — a  tre- 
mendous swell,"  said  Barty,  at  lunch. 

Leah.  "Who  is  he?" 
Barf//.  "  M.  Paroly,  of  the  Debats.'' 
Leah.   "  What  is  ho  when  he's  at  home  ?" 
Bartij.   "A  famous  journalist ;  as  you'd  know  if  you'd 
read  the  French  newspapers  sometimes,  which  you  never 
do." 

Leah.  ''Haven't  got  the  time,  lie's  coming  to  inter- 
view you,  I  suppose,  and  make  French  newspaper  copy 
out  of  you." 

Bartij.  "  ^V'''y  shouldn't  he  come  just  for  the  pleasure 
of  making  my  accpiaintance  ?" 

Leah.  "And  mine— I'll  be  there  and  talk  to  him, 
too  !" 

Bartij.   *'  ;My  dear,  he  probably  doesn't  s'^eak  a  word 


884 


t 


of  Eno-lisli;  and  vour  French,  voii  know!  Yon  never 
would  learn  Frencli  properly,  altliouf!;li  yon've  had  nie  to 
practise  on  for  so  many  years — not  to  mention  Bob  and 
Ida." 

Ledh.  *'  riow  nnkind  of  you,  Barty !  Wlien  have  I  had 
time  to  trouble  about  I'^rench  ?  Besides,  yon  always  laugh 
at  my  French  accent  and   uiimic  it — and  iJidTx  not  en- 


couraging 


f>' 


lUtrhj.  '*  My  dear,  I  ddorc  your  French  accent ;  it's  so 
nnalTected  !     I  only  wish  I  beard  it  a  little  oftener." 

I,(>(ih.  "  You  sliall  bear  it  this  afternoon.  At  what 
o'clock  is  he  coming,  your  Monsieur  I'aroly  ?" 

Bartji.  **  At  four-thirty." 

Leah.  **0h,  Bartv,  diDt't  give  vourself  awav  —  don't 
talk  to  him  about  your  writings,  or  about  yourself,  or 
about  your  family.  He'll  vulgarize  you  all  over  France. 
Surely  you've  not  forgotten  that  nice  'gentleman '  from 
America  who  came  to  see  you,  and  who  told  you  that  lie 
was  no  interviewer,  not  he!  but  cami'  merely  as  a  friend 
and  adtnirer  —  a  distant  but  constant  worshipper  for 
many  years!  and  how  you  talked  to  him  like  a  long-lost 
brother,  in  consequence  !  '  IMiere's  nobody  in  the  world 
like  the  best  Americans,'  you  said.  You  adored  them  (dl„ 
and  wanted  to  be  an  American  yourself — till  a  month  af- 
ter, when  he  published  every  word  you  said,  and  more, 
and  what  sort  of  cravat  you  had  on,  and  how  silent  and 
cold  and  uncomi'iuiucative  your  good,  motherly  FiUglish 
wife  was — you,  the  brilliant  ami  talkative  liarty  dosselin, 
who  should  iiave  mated  with  a  countrywoman  of  his  own! 
and  how  your  bosom  friend  was  a  liuge,  overgrown  every- 
day Briton  with  a  broken  nose  !  /  saw  what  he  was  at, 
from  the  low  cunning  in  his  face  as  he  listened  ;  and  felt 
that  every  single  unguarded  word  you  dropped  was  a  dol- 
lar in  his  pocket !     How  we've  all  had  to  live  down  that 


•ii 


II  never 
1  me  to 
Job  and 


,e  I  had 
's  laiigli 
not  en- 


;  it's  so 
it  wliat 


—  don't 
rself,  or 
France. 
1 '  from 
that  he 
I  friend 
per   for 
)ng-lost 
e  world 
lem  (iU„ 
)nth  af- 
l  more, 
Mit  and 
Mi,!;-lish 
osselin, 
IS  own  I 
1  every- 
was  at, 
md  felt 
s  a  dol- 
\\\  that 


385 


dreadfully  facetious  and  grotesqno  and  familiar  article 
he  printed  about  us  all  in  those  twenty  American  news- 
papers that  have  got  the  largest  circulation  in  the  world  I 
and  how  you  stamped  and  raved,  Barty,  and  swore  that 
never  another  American  'gentleman'  should  enter  your 
house  I  What  names  you  called  him  :  'cadi'  'sweep!' 
'  low-bred,  little  Yankee  penny-a-liner  !'  Don't  you  re- 
member ?  Why,  he  descril)ed  you  as  a  quite  nice-look- 
ing man  somewhat  over  the  middle  height  !" 

''Oh  yes;  damn  him,  /  remember  I"  said  Barty,  who 
was  three  or  four  inches  over  six  feet,  and  quite  openly 
vain  of  his  good  looks. 

Leah.  "  Well,  then,  pray  be  cautious  with  this  Mon- 
sieur Paroly  j'^ou  think  so  much  of  because  he's  French. 
Let  him  talk — interview  him — ask  him  all  about  his  fami- 
ly, if  he's  got  one — his  children,  and  all  that  ;  play  a 
game  of  billiards  with  him — talk  French  politics — dance 
'La  Paladine' — make  him  laugh — make  him  suioke  one 
of  those  strong  Trichinopoli  cigars  Bob  gave  you  for  the 
tops  of  omnibuses  —  make  him  feel  your  biceps  —  teach 
him  how  to  play  cup  and  ball — give  hiri  a  sketch — then 
bring  him  in  to  tea.  Madame  Cornelys  will  be  there, 
and  Julia  Ironsides,  and  Ida,  who'll  talk  Freuch  by  the 
yard.  Then  we'll  show  him  the  St.  Bernards  and  Mi- 
nerva, and  I'll  give  him  an  armful  of  (Jloire  de  Dijon 
roses,  and  shake  him  warmly  by  the  hand,  so  that  he 
won't  feel  ill-iuitured  towards  us  ;  and  we'll  get  him  out 
of  the  house  as  quick  as  possflde." 

Thus  prepared,  Barty  awaited  M.  Paroly,  and  this  is 
a  free  rendering  of  what  M.  Paroly  afterwards  wrote 
about  him  : 

"  AVitli  a  mixture  of  feelings  difficult  to  analvze  and 

35 


HBe 


> 


define,  I  bade  adieu  to  the  sage  and  philosopher  of 
Cheyne  Row,  and  had  myself  transported  in  my  hansom 
to  the  abode  of  tlie  other  great  sonmiife  Utteraire  in 
London,  the  light  one  —  M.  Josselin,  to  whom  we  in 
France  also  are  so  deeply  in  debt. 

'*  After  a  longish  drive  through  sordid  streets  we  reached 
a  briglit  historic  vicinity  and  a  charming  hill,  and  my 
invisible  Jehu  guided  me  at  the  great  trot  by  verdant 
country  lanes.  We  turned  through  lodge  gates  into  a 
narrow  drive  in  a  well-kept  garden  where  there  was  a 
lawn  of  English  greenness,  on  which  were  children  and 
nurses  and  many  dogs,  and  young  people  wiio  played  at 
the  lawn-tennis. 

"■  The  door  of  the  house  was  opened  by  a  charming 
young  Avoinan  in  black  with  a  white  apron  and  cap, 
like  a  waitress  at  the  Bouillon  Duval,  who  guided  me 
through  a  bright  corridor  full  of  pictures  and  panoplies, 
and  then  through  a  handsome  studio  to  a  billiard-room, 
where  M.  Josselin  was  playing  at  the  billiard  to  himself 
all  alone. 

"  M.  Josselin  receives  me  with  jovial  cordiality;  he 
is  enormously  tall,  enormously  handsome,  like  a  drum- 
nuijor  of  the  Imperial  (Juard,  except  that  his  liji  and 
chin  are  shaved  and  he  has  slight  whiskers ;  very  well 
dressed,  with  thick  curly  hair,  and  regular  features,  and 
a  singularly  sympathetic  voice  :  he  is  about  thirty-five. 

"  1  have  to  decline  a  game  of  billiards,  and  refuse  a 
cigar,  a  very  formidable  cigar,  very  black  and  very  thick 
and  very  long.  I  don't  smoke,  and  am  no  hand  at  a 
cue.  liesides,  I  want  to  talk  about  Etuiles  Mories, 
about  Les  Trepassecs  de  Fra)n;ois  Villon,  about  Dejanire 
et  DaliJa! 

'*  M.  Josselin  speaks  French  as  he  writes  it,  in  abso- 
lute perfection  ;  his  mother,  he  tells  me,  was  from  Nor- 


)lier  of 
liansoiu 
aire  in 
I  we  in 

reached 
and  my 
verdant 
s  into  a 
e  was  a 
ren  and 
(layed  at 

harming 
ind  cap, 
ided  me 
inoplies, 
rd-room, 
himself 

.ility;  he 
a  drnm- 

lip  and 
ery  well 
ures,  and 
,y-tive. 

refuse  a 
cry  thick 
and  at  a 
Morten, 

Dejanire 


r 


in  abso- 
om  Nor- 


n 


w 

•J. 

'A 

rr 


H 

H 
O 


I        g 


C 

Vj 
W 

f 


388 


mandy — the  daughter  of  fislierfolk  in  Dieppe;  he  was  at 
school  in  Paris,  and  lias  lived  there  as  an  art  student. 

''  lie  does  not  care  to  talk  about  Lch  Trepassees  or 
Les  Kloikfi,  or  anv  of  his  immortal  works. 

'Mle  asks  me  if  I'm  a  good  swimmer,  and  can  do  la 
coupe  properly;  and  leaning  over  his  billiard-table  he 
shows  me  how  it  ought  to  be  done,  and  dilates  on  the 
merits  of  that  mode  of  getting  througii  the  water.  He 
confides  to  me  that  he  sulfers  from  a  terrible  nostalgia — 
a  consuming  desire  to  do  la  coiqje  in  the  swimming-baths 
of  Passy  against  the  current ;  to  take  a  header  d  la 
htissarde  with  his  eyes  open  and  explore  the  bed  of  the 
vSeine  between  Grenelle  and  the  lie  des  Cygnes — as  he 
used  to  do  when  he  was  a  school-boy — and  pick  up  mus- 
sels with  his  teeth. 

''Then  he  explains  to  me  the  peculiar  virtues  of  his 
stove,  which  is  almost  entirely  an  invention  of  his  own, 
and  shows  me  how  he  can  regulate  the  heat  of  the  room 
to  the  fraction  of  a  degree  centigrade,  which  he  prefers 
to  Fahrenheit — just  as  he  prefers  metres  and  centimetres 
to  inches  and  feet — and  ten  to  twelve  ! 

*'  After  this  he  performs  some  very  clever  tricks  with 
billiard-balls  ;  juggles  three  of  them  in  each  hand  simul- 
taneously, and  explains  to  me  that  this  is  an  exceptional 
achievement,  as  he  only  sees  out  of  one  eye,  and  that  no 
acrobat  living  could  do  the  same  with  one  eye  shut. 

"  I  quite  believe  him,  and  wonder  and  admire,  and  his 
face  beams  with  honest  satisfaction — and  this  is  the  man 
who  wrote  La  quatrieme  Dimcnsio:i ! 

"  Then  he  tells  me  some  very  funny  French  school- 
boy stories  ;  he  delights  in  my  hearty  laughter  ;  they  are 
capital  stories,  but  I  had  heard  them  all  before  —  when 
I  was  at  school. 

**'And  now,  M.  Josselin,'  I  say,  'h  propos  of  that  last 


389 


lie  was  at 

ident. 
>assees  or 

ail  do  la 
■table  he 
s  on  the 
ter.  He 
stalgia — 
ng-baths 
ler  d  la 
id  of  the 
s — as  he 

Uj)  IllUS- 

3s  of  his 
Ills  own, 
lie  room 
(  prefers 
timetres 

iks  with 
d  simiil- 
Dptional 
that  no 
ut. 

and  his 
;lie  man 

school- 
bliey  are 
—  when 

liat  last 


story  you've  just  told  me  ;  in  the  Trepassces  de  Fran- 
cois Villon  you  have  omitted  **la  tres-sage  Ileloise"  al- 
together.' 

"  '  Oh,  have  I  ?  How  stupid  of  me  !— Abelard  and  all 
that !  Ah  well — there's  plenty  of  time — nous  allons  ar- 
ranger tout  9a  !  All  that  sort  of  thing  comes  to  me  in 
the  night,  you  know  when  I'm  half  asleep  in  bed— a— 
a — I  mean  after  lunch  in  the  afternoon,  when  I  take  my 
siesta.' 

**Tlien  he  leads  me  into  his  studio  and  shows  me  pen- 
cil studies  from  the  life,  things  of  ineffable  beauty  of 
form  and  expression  —  things  that  haunt  the  memory. 

"  *Show  me  a  study  for  Dejanire,'  I  say. 

"  '  Oh  !  I'll  draw  Dejanire  for  you,'  and  he  takes  a 
soft  pencil  and  a  piece  of  smooth  card-board,  and  in  five 
minutes  draws  me  an  outline  of  a  naked  woman  on  a 
centaur's  back,  a  creature  of  touching  beauty  no  other 
hand  in  the  world  could  produce  — so  aristocratically 
delicately  English  and  of  to-day— so  severely,  so  nobly 
and  classically  Greek.  C'est  la  chastete  inume— mais  ce 
n'est  pas  Dejanire  ! 

"  He  gives  me  this  sketch,  which  I  rechristen  Godiva, 
and  value  as  I  value  few  things  I  possess. 

"  Then  he  shows  me  pencil  studies  of  children's  heads, 
from  nature,  and  I  exclaim  : 

"  '  0  Heaven,  what  a  dream  of  childhood  !  Childhood 
is  never  so  beautiful  as  that.' 

*'  '  Oh  yes  it  is,  in  England,  I  assure  you,'  says  he. 
*  I'll  show  you  my  children  presently  ;  and  you,  have  you 
any  children  ?' 

''  *  Alas  !  no,'  I  reply  ;  •  I  am  a  bachelor.' 

**  I  remark  that  from  time  to  time,  just  as  the  moon 
veils  itself  behind  a  passing  cloud,  the  radiance  of  his 
brilliant  and  jovial  physiognomy  is  eclipsed  by  the  ex- 


390 


5 


pression  of  a  sadness  immense,  mysterious,  infinite  ;  this 
is  followed  by  a  look  of  angelic  candor  and  sweetness 
and  gentle  heroism,  that  moves  you  strangely,  even  to  the 
heart,  and  makes  appeal  to  all  your  warmest  and  deepest 
sympathies — the  look  of  a  very  masculine  Joan  of  Arc  ! 
You  don't  know  why,  but  you  feel  you  would  make  any 
sacrilice  for  a  man  who  looks  at  you  like  that,  follow  him 
to  the  death — load  a  forlorn  hope  at  his  bidding. 

"He  does  not  exact  from  me  anything  so  arduous  as 
this,  but  passing  round  my  neck  his  powerful  arm,  he 
says : 

**  ^  Come  and  drink  some  tea  ;  I  should  like  to  present 
you  to  my  wife.' 

*'And  he  leads  me  through  another  corridor  to  a 
charming  drawing-room  that  gives  on  to  the  green  lawn 
of  the  garden. 

"  There  are  several  people  there  taking  the  tea. 

"  He  presents  me  first  to  Madame  Josselin.  If  the 
hush  nd  is  enormously  handsome,  the  wife  is  a  beauty 
absolutely  divine  ;  she,  also,  is  very  tall  —  tr^s  elegante  ; 
she  has  soft  wavy  black  hair,  and  eyes  and  eyebrows 
d'un  uoir  de  jais,  and  a  complexion  d'une  blancheur 
de  lis,  with  just  a  point  of  carmine  in  the  cheeks.  She 
does  not  say  muoh — slie  speaks  French  with  difficulty ; 
but  she  expresses  >vith  her  smiling  eyes  so  cordial  and 
sincere  a  welcome  that  one  feels  glad  to  be  in  the  same 
room  with  her,  one  feels  it  is  a  happy  privilege  ,  it  does 
one  good — one  ceases  to  feel  one  may  possibly  be  an 
intruder — one  almost  feels  one  is  wanted  there. 

"  I  am  then  presented  to  three  or  four  other  ladies  ; 
and  it  would  seem  that  the  greatest  beauties  of  London 
have  given  each  other  rendezvous  in  Madame  Josselin's 
salon  —  this  London,  where  are  to  be  found  the  most 
beautiful  women  in  the  world  and  the  ugliest. 


391 


te  ;  this 
iveetness 
m  to  the 
deepest 
of  Arc  ! 
ake  any 
low  him 

uoiis  as 
arm,  he 

present 

or   to  a 
en  lawn 


If  the 
beauty 
Bgante ; 
^ebrows 
Lncheur 
3.  She 
Sculty ; 
ial  and 
le  same 
it  does 
be  an 

ladies ; 
jondon 
sselin's 
e  most 


**  First,  I  salute  the  Countess  of  Ironsides  —  ah,  mon 
Dieu.  la  Diane  chasseresse — la  Sapho  de  Pradier  I  Tiien 
Madame  Cornelys,  the  wife  of  the  great  sculpior,  who 
lives  next  door  —  a  daughter  of  the  ancient  gods  of 
Greece  !  Then  a  magnificent  blonde,  an  old  friend  of 
theirs,  who  speaks  French  absolutely  like  a  French- 
woman, and  says  thee  and  thou  to  ^I.  Jossolin,  and  in- 
troducefe  me  to  her  brother,  un  vrai  type  de  colosse  bon 
enfant,  d'une  tenue  irrcprochable  [thank  you,  M,  Faro- 
ly],  who  also  speaks  the  French  of  Fnmce,  for  he  was 
at  school  there — a  school-fellow  of  our  host. 

''  There  are  two  or  three  children,  girls,  more  beauti- 
ful than  anything  or  anybody  else  in  the  house  —  in  the 
world,  I  think  !  They  give  me  tea  and  cakes,  and  bread 
and  butter  ;  most  delicious  tartines,  as  thin  as  wafers, 
and  speak  French  well,  and  relate  to  me  the  biographies 
of  their  animals,  une  vraie  menagerie  which  I  afterwaids 
have  to  visit — immense  dogs,  rabbits,  hedgehogs,  squir- 
rels, white  mice,  and  a  gigantic  owl,  who  answers  to  the 
name  of  Minerva. 

"  1  find  myself,  ma  foi,  very  happy  among  these  won- 
derful people,  and  preserve  an  impression  of  beauty,  of 
bonhomie,  of  naturalness  and  domestic  felicity  quite 
unlike  anything  I  have  ever  been  privileged  to  see — an 
impression  never  to  be  forgotten. 

"  But  as  for  IJfoih's  Mories  and  Lcs  T?'cpassees  de 
Francois  Villon,  I  really  have  to  give  them  up ;  the 
beautiful  big  dogs  are  more  important  than  all  the  books 
in  the  world,  even  the  master's  —  even  the  master  him- 
self ! 

"However,  I  want  no  explanation  to  see  and  under- 
stand how  M.  Josselin  has  written  most  of  his  chefs- 
d'oeuvre  from  the  depths  of  a  happy  consciousness  ha- 
bituated to  all  that  is  most  graceful  and  charming  and 


392 


seductive  in  real  life  —  and  a  deeply  sympathetic,  poig- 
nant, and  compassionate  sense  of  the  contrast  to  all  this. 

"Happy  mortal,  happy  family,  happy  country  where 
grow  (poussent)  such  people,  and  where  such  children 
flourish  !  The  souvenir  of  that  so  brief  hour  spent  at 
Gretna  Lodge  is  one  of  the  most  beautiful  souvenirs  of 
my  life — and,  above  all,  the  souvenir  of  the  belle  chate- 
laine who  filled  my  hansom  with  beautiful  roses  culled 
by  her  own  fair  hand,  which  gave  me  at  parting  that 
cordial  English  pressure  so  much  more  suggestive  oi  Aii 
revoir  than  Adieu  ! 

*'  It  is  with  sincere  regret  one  leaves  people  who  part 
with  one  so  regretfully. 

"  Alphonse  Pakoly." 


h 


Except  that  good  and  happy  women  have  no  history,  I 
should  almost  like  to  write  the  history  of  Barty's  wife, 
and  call  it  the  history  of  the  busiest  and  most  hard- 
working woman  in  Great  Britain. 

Barty  left  everything  to  her — to  the  very  signing  of 
cheques.  He  would  have  nothing  to  do  with  any  busi- 
ness of  any  kind. 

He  wouldn^'t  even  carve  at  lunch  or  dinner.  Leah  did, 
unless  /  was  there. 

It  is  but  fair  to  say  he  worked  as  hard  as  any  man  I 
know.  When  he  was  not  writing  or  drawing,  he  was 
thinking  about  drawing  or  writing ;  when  they  got  to 
Marsfield,  he  hardly  ever  stirred  outside  the  grounds. 

There  he  would  garden  with  gardeners  or  cut  down 
trees,  or  do  carpenter's  Avork  at  his  short  intervals  of 
rest,  or  groom  a  horse. 

How  often  have  I  seen  him  suddenly  drop  a  spade  or 
axe  or  saw  or  curry-comb,  and  go  straight  off  to  a  thatched 


393 


ic,  poig- 
all  this, 
y  wliere 
children 
spent  at 
enirs  of 
e  chute- 
s  culled 
ng  that 
e  of  Alt 

^ho  part 

OLY." 


story,  I 
's  wife, 
;t  liard- 

ning  of 
y  busi- 

ah  did, 

'  man  I 
he  was 
got  to 
tids. 
t  down 
•vals  of 

)ade  or 
latched 


gazebo  he  had  bnilt  himself,  where  writing  materials  were 
left,  and  write  down  the  happy  thought  that  had  oc- 
curred ;  and  then,  pipe  in  mouth,  back  to  his  gardening 
or  the  rest ! 

I  also  had  a  gazebo  close  to  his,  where  I  read  blue- 
books  and  wrote  my  endless  correspondence  with  the 
help  of  a  secretary— only  too  ghid,  both  of  us,  to  be  dis- 
turbed by  festive  and  frolicsome  young  Bartys  of  either 
sex— by  their  dogs— by  their  mother  ! 

Leah's  province  it  was  to  attend  to  all  the  machinery 
by  which  life  was  carried  on  in  this  big  house,  and  social 
intercourse,  and  the  education  of  the  young,  and  endless 
hospitalities. 

She  would  even  try  to  coach  her  boys  in  Latin  and 
Euclid  during  their  preparation  times  K^-  the  school 
where  they  spent  the  day,  two  miles  off.  Such  Latin ! 
such  geometry!  She  could  never  master  the  ablative  ab- 
solute, nor  what  used  to  be  called  at  Brossard's  le  que  re- 
tranche,  nor  see  the  necessity  of  demonstrating  by  A-f  B 
what  was  sufficiently  obvious  to  her  without. 

''  Who  helps  you  in  your  Latin,  my  boy?"  says  the 
master,  with  a  grin. 

*'My  father,"  says  Geoffrey,  too  loyal  to  admit  it  was 
his  mother  who  had  coached  him  wrong. 

**Ah,  I  suppose  he  helps  you  with  your  Euclid  also  ?" 
says  the  master,  with  a  broader  grin  still. 

"  Yes,  sir,"  says  Geoffrey. 

*'  Your  father's  French,  I  suppose  ?" 

"  I  dare  say,  sir,"  says  Geoffrey. 

"  Ah,  I  thought  so  !" 

All  of  which  Avas  very  unfair  to  Barty,  whose  Latin, 
like  that  of  most  boys  who  have  been  brought  up  at  a 
French  school,  was  probably  quite  as  good  us  the  Eng- 
lish school-master's  own,  except  for  its  innocence  of  quan- 


394 


titles;  and  Blancheb  and  Lcgendre  are  easier  to  learn 
than  Euclid,  and  stick  longer  in  the  memory  ;  and  Barty 
remembered  well. 

Then,  besides  the  many  friends  who  came  to  the  pleas- 
ant house  to  stay,  or  else  for  lunch  or  tea  or  dinner,  there 
were  pious  pilgrims  from  all  parts  of  the  world,  as  to  a 
shrine — from  Paris,  from  Gernumv,  Italy,  Norway,  and 
Sweden  ;  froui  America  especially.  Leah  had  to  play  the 
hostess  almost  every  day  of  her  life,  and  show  olf  her  lion 
and  make  Irim  roar  and  wag  his  tail  and  stand  on  his  hind 
legs — a  lion  that  was  not  ahvjiys  in  the  mood  to  tumble 
and  be  shown  off,  unless  the  pilgrims  were  pretty  and  of 
the  female  sex. 

Barty  was  a  man's  man  jiar  excellence,  and  loved  to 
forgather  with  men.  The  only  men  he  couldn't  stand 
were  those  we  have  agreed  to  call  in  modern  English  the 
Philistines  aiul  the  prigr, — or  both  combined,  as  they  can 
sometimes  be  ;  and  this  objection  of  his  would  have  con- 
siderably narrowed  his  circle  of  male  acquaintances  but 
that  the  Philistines  and  the  prigs,  who  so  detest  each 
other,  were  so  dotingly  fond  of  Barty,  and  ran  him  to 
earth  in  Marsfield. 

The  Philistines  loved  him  for  his  world-wide  populari- 
ty;  tile  prigs  in  spite  of  it  I  They  loved  him  for  himself 
alone — because  they  couldn't  help  it,  I  suppose — and  la- 
mented over  him  as  over  a  fallen  angel. 

lie  was  hiippiest  of  all  with  the  good  denizens  of 
Bohemia,  who  have  known  want  and  temptation  and 
come  unscathed  out  of  the  fire,  but  with  their  affec- 
tations and  insincerities  and  conventionalities  all  ournt 
away. 

(rood  old  Bohemia — alma  inaterdolorosa  ;  stern  old  gray 
she-wolf  witli  the  dry  teats — maratre  an  ccpur  de  picrrel  It 
is  not  a  bad  school  in  wliicli  to  graduate,  if  you  can  do  sq 


I  lefirn 
Barty 

pleas- 
',  there 
IS  to  a 
ly,  and 
lay  tlie 
ler  lion 
lis  hind 
tnmble 

and  of 

Dved  to 
t  stand 
lisli  the 
hey  can 
ve  c'on- 
ces  bnt 
st  'jach 
him  to 

tpnlari- 
liniself 
-and  la- 
sens  of 
on  and 
affeo- 
ournt 

)ld  c^ray 
rre!  It 
n  do  so 


395 


withont  loss  of  principle  or  sacrifice  of  the  delicate  bloom 
of  honor  and  self-respect. 

Next  to  these  I  think  he  loved  the  barbariiins  he  be- 
longed to  on  his  father's  side,  who,  whatever  their  faults, 
are  seldom  prigs  or  Philistines;  and  then  he  loved  the 
proletarians,  who  had  good,  straightforward  niann  )rs  and 
no  pretension — the  laborer,  the  skilled  artisan,  especially 
the  toilers  of  the  sea. 

In  spite  of  his  love  of  his  own  sex,  he  was  of  the  kind 
that  can  go  to  the  devil  for  a  j)retty  woman. 

He  did  not  do  this  ;  he  married  one  instead,  fortunately 
for  himself  and  for  his  children  and  for  her,  and  utiwk 
to  her  and  preferred  her  society  to  any  society  in  the 
world.  Her  mere  presence  seemed  to  have  an  extraordi- 
narily soothing  influence  on  him  ;  it  was  as  though  life 
were  short,  and  he  could  never  see  enough  of  her  in  the 
allotted  time  and  space ;  the  chronic  necessity  of  her 
nearness  to  him  became  a  habit  and  a  second  nature — 
like  his  pipe,  as  he  would  say. 

Still,  he  was  such  a  slave  to  his  own  aesthetic  eye  and 
ever-youthful  heart  that  the  sight  of  lovely  woman  pleased 
him  more  than  the  sight  of  anything  else  on  earth  ;  he 
delighted  in  her  proximity,  in  the  rustle  of  her  garments, 
in  the  sound  of  her  voice  ;  and  lovely  woman's  instinct 
told  her  this,  so  that  she  was  very  fond  of  Uarty  in  return. 

He  was  especially  popular  with  sweet,  pretty  young 
girls,  to  wdiom  his  gonial,  happy,  paternal  manner  always 
endeared  him.  They  felt  ;is  safe  with  Barty  as  with  any 
father  or  uncle,  for  all  his  facetious  /ove-making ;  lie 
made  them  laugh,  and  they  loved  him  for  it.  and  they 
forgoi  his  ApoUoship.  and  his  Lionhood,  aiul  his  general 
Immensity,  which  he  never  remenibercd  iiiinselt'. 

It  is  to  be  feared  that  women  who  lacked  the  heavenly 
gift  of  good  looks  did  not  interest  him  quite  so  much, 


30<) 


whatever  other  gifts  they  might  possess,  unless  it  were 
the  gift  of  making  h)vely  music.  The  little  l)rown  night- 
ingale outshone  tlic  brilliant  bird  of  paradise  if  she  were 
a  true  nightingale ;  if  she  were  very  bi'own  indeed,  he 
would  shut  his  eyes  and  listen  with  all  his  ears,  rapt,  as 
in  a  heavenly  dream.  And  the  closed  lids  would  moisten, 
especially  the  lid  that  hid  the  eye  that  couldn't  see — the 
emotional  one  I — although  he  was  the  least  lachrymose  of 
men,  since  it  was  with  such  a  dry  eye  he  wrote  what  I 
could  scarcely  read  for  my  tears. 

But  his  natural  kindliness  and  geniality  made  him  al- 
ways try  and  please  those  who  tried  to  please  him,  beau- 
tiful or  the  reverse,  whether  they  succeeded  or  not;  and 
he  was  just  as  popular  with  the  ducks  and  geese  as  with 
the  swans  and  peacocks  and  nightingales  and  birds  of 
paradise.  The  dull,  commonplace  dames  who  prosed  and 
buzzed  and  l)ored,  the  elderly  intellectual  virgins  who 
knew  ]i  thing  of  life  but  what  they  had  read — or  written 
— in  **  Tendenz  '*  novels,  yet  sadly  rebuked  him,  more 
in  sorrow  than  in  anger,  for  this  passage  or  that  in  his 
books,  about  things  out  of  their  ken  vJtogether,  etc. 

His  playful  amenity  disarmed  the  most  aggressive  blue- 
stocking, orthodox  or  Unitarian,  Catholic  or  Hebrew — 
radicals,  agnostics,  vegetarians,  teetotalers,  anti- vaccina- 
tionists, anLi-vivisectiouists — even  anti-things  that  don't 
concern  decent  women  at  all,  whether  married  or  single. 

It  was  only  when  his  privacy  Avas  invaded  by  some  pat- 
ronizing, loud-voiced  nouvelle-riche  with  a  low-bred  physi- 
ognomy that  no  millions  on  earth  could  gild  or  reline, 
and  nuinners  to  match  ;  some  foolish,  fashionable, would- 
be  worldling,  who  combined  the  arch  little  coquetries  and 
impertinent  affectations  of  a  spoilt  beauty  with  the  ug- 
liness of  an  Aztec  or  an  Esquinuiu  ;  some  silly,  titled 
old  frump  who  frankly  ignored  his  tea-making  wife  and 


397 


daiigliters  and  talked  to  hi}n  only- -and  only  about  her 
grotesque  and  ugly  self— and  told  him  of  all  the  famous 
painters  Avho  had  wanted  to  paint  her  for  the  last  hun- 
dred years — it  was  only  then  he  grew  glum  and  reserved 
and  depressed  and  made  an  unfavorable  impression  on 
the  other  sex. 

What  it  must  have  cost  him  not  to  express  his  disgust 
more  frankly  !  for  reticence  on  any  matter  was  almost  a 
torture  to  him. 

Most  of  us  have  a  mental  sanctum  to  which  we  retire 
at  times,  locking  the  door  behind  us  ;  and  there  we  think 
of  high  and  beautiful  things,  and  hold  commune  with 
our  Maker  ;  or  count  our  money,  or  improvise  that  rep- 
artee the  gods  withheld  last  night,  and  shake  haiuls 
with  ourselves  for  our  wit ;  or  caress  the  thought  of  some 
darling,  secret  wickedness  or  vice  ;  or  revel  in  dreams  of 
some  hidden  hate,  or  some  love  we  mustn't  own  ;  and 
curse  tliose  Ave  have  to  be  (,'ivil  to  whether  we  like  them 
or  not,  and  nurse  our  little  envies  till  we  almost  get  to 
like  them. 

There  we  remember  all  the  stupid  and  unkiiul  things 
we've  ever  said  or  thought  or  done,  and  all  the  slights 
that  have  evei  been  put  on  us,  ami  secretly  plan  the 
revenge  that  never  comes  off  — because  time  has  soft- 
ened our  hearts,  let  us  hope,  when  ()pi)ortunity  serves  at 
last  I 

That  Barty  had  no  such  holy  of  holies  to  creep  into  I 
feel  pretty  sure— unless  it  was  the  wifely  heart  of  Leah  ; 
whatever  came  into  his  head  came  straight  out  of  his 
mouth  ;  he  had  nothing  to  conceal,  aiul  thought  aloud, 
for  all  the  world  to  hear  ;  ami  it  does  credit,  1  think,  to 
the  singular  goodness  and  guilelessnessof  his  miture  that 
he  could  afford  to  be  so  outspoken  through  life  and  yet 
give  so  little  ollenco  to  others  as  he  did.    His  indiscretiou 


39d 


did  very  little  harm,  and  his  naive  self-revelation  only 
made  him  the  more  lovable  to  those  who  knew  him  w«^ll. 

They  were  poor  creatures,  the  daws  who  pecked  at  that 
manly  heart,  so  stanch  and  warm  and  constant. 

As  for  Leah,  it  was  easy  to  see  that  she  looked  upon 
her  husband  as  a  fixed  star,  and  was  well  pleased  to  tend 
and  minister  iuid  revolve,  and  shine  with  no  other  light 
tiian  liis ;  it  was  in  reality  an  absolute  adoration  on  her 
part.  But  she  very  cleverly  managed  to  hide  it  from 
him  ;  she  was  not  tlie  kind  of  woman  that  makes  a  door- 
mat of  herself  for  the  man  she  loves.  She  kept  him  in 
very  good  order  indeed. 

It  was  her  theory  that  female  adoration  is  not  good 
for  masculine  vanity,  and  that  he  got  quite  enough  of  it 
outside  his  own  home  ;  and  she  would  make  such  fun  of 
him  and  his  female  adorers  all  over  the  world  that  he 
grew  to  laugh  at  them  himself,  and  to  value  a  pat  on 
the  back  and  a  hearty  "  Well  done,  Barty  !"  from  his  wife 
more  than 

"  Tlie  blandisliments  of  all  Uie  womankind 
In  Europe  and  America  combined." 


Gentle  and  kind  and  polite  as  she  was,  however,  she 
could  do  battle  in  defence  of  her  great  man,  who  was  so 
backward  at  defending  himself  ;  and  very  effective  battle 
too. 

As  an  instance  among  many,  illustrating  her  method  of 
warfare  :  Oncj  at  an  important  house  a  very  immense  per- 
sonage (who  had  an  eye  for  a  pretty  woman)  had  asked 
to  be  introduced  to  her  and  had  taken  her  down  to  sup- 
per ;  a  very  immense  personage  indeed,  whose  fame  had 
penetrated  to  the  uttermost  ends  of  the  earth  and  de- 
servedly made  his  name  a  beloved  household  word 
wherever  our  tongue  is  spoken,  so  that  it  was  iu  every 


899 


Englishman's  mouth  all  over  the  world— as  Barty's  is 
now. 

Leah  was  immensely  impresserl,  and  treated  his  elderly 
Immensity  to  a  very  full  measure  of  the  deference  that 
was  his  due  ;  and  such  open  homage  is  not  always  good 
for  even  the  Immensest  Immensities— it  sometimes  makes 
them  give  themselves  immense  airs.  So  that  this  i):ir- 
ticular  Immensity  began  mildly  but  firmly  to  iiatrouize 
Leah.  This  she  didn't  mind  on  her  own  account,  but 
when  he  said,  quite  casually  : 

.      "By-the-way,  I  forget  if  I  k)ww  your  good  husljand  • 
do  I  ?" 

— she  was  not  pleased,  and  immediately  answered  : 

*'I  really  can't  say;  I  don't  think  lever  heard  him 
mention  your  name  !" 

This  was  not  absolutely  veracious  on  Leah's  part ;  for 
to  Barty  in  those  days  this  particular  great  man  was  a 
god,  and  he  was  always  full  of  him.  But  it  brought  the 
immense  one  back  to  his  bearings  at  once,  and  he  left 
off  patronizing  and  was  almost  humble. 

Anyhow,  it  was  a  lie  so  white  that  the  recording  angel 
will  probably  delete  what  there  is   of  it  with  a  genial 
smile,  and  leave  a  little  blank  in  its  place. 
• 
In  an  old  diary  of  Leah's  I  find  the  following  entrv  : 
''March  Gth,  18M.— Mamma  and  Ida  Scatcherd  canu? 
to  stay.     In  the  evening  our  sixth  daughter  and  eiglith 
child  was  born." 

Julia  (Mrs.  Mainwaring)  was  this  favored  person  — 
and  is  still.  Julia  and  her  predecessors  have  all  lived 
and  flourished  up  to  now. 

The  Josselinshad  been  exceptionally  fortunate  in  their 
children  ;  each  new  specimen  seemed  an  even  liner  speci- 
men  than   the   last.      The   health  of   this    remarkable 


400 


family  had  been  exemplary— measles,  and  mumps,  and 
whooping-cough  their  only  ailments. 

During  the  month  of  Leah's  confinement  Barty's 
nocturnal  literary  activity  was  unusually  great.  Night 
after  night  he  wrote  in  his  sleep,  and  accumulated  enough 
raw  material  to  last  him  a  lifetime ;  for  the  older  he 
grew  and  the  more  practised  his  hand  the  longer  it  took 
him  to  give  his  work  the  shape  he  wished  ;  he  became 
more  fastidious  year  by  year  as  he  became  less  of  an 
amateur. 

One  morning,  a  day  or  two  before  his  wife's  complete 
recovery,  he  found  a  long  personal  letter  from  Martia  by 
his  bedside — a  letter  that  moved  him  very  deeply,  and 
gave  him  food  for  thought  during  many  weeks  and 
months  and  years : 


*'  My  Beloved  Barty, — The  time  has  come  at  last 
when  I  must  bid  you  farewelh 

**I  have  outsta3'ed  my  proper  v/elcouie  on  earth  as  a 
disembodied  conscience  by  just  a  hundred  years,  and  my 
desire  for  reincarnation  has  become  an  imperious  passion 
not  to  be  resisted. 

*'It  is  more  than  a  desire — it  is  a  duty  as  well,  a  duty 
far  too  long  deferred. 

"  Barty,  1  am  going  to  be  your  next  child.  I  can  con- 
ceive no  greater  earthly  felicity  than  to  be  a  ciiild  of 
yours  and  Leah's.  I  should  ha^'e  been  one  long  before, 
but  that  you  and  I  have  had  so  much  to  do  together  for 
this  beautiful  eartli — a  great  debt  to  pay  :  you,  for  being 
as  you  are  ;  I,  for  having  known  you. 

*'  Barty,  you  havf»  :io  concejDtion  what  y^ti  are  to  me 
and  always  have  been. 

''  I  am  to  you  but  a  name,  a  vague  idea,  a  mysterious 
inspiration;    sometimes   a  questionable   guide,   I   fear. 


ps,  and 

Barty's 

Night 

enough 

lUler  he 

it  took 

became 

s   of  an 

omplete 
iirtia  by 
ply,  and 
eks   and 


at  hist 

irth  as  a 

and  my 

s  passion 

1,  a  duty 


can  con- 

cliiUl  of 

;»•  before, 

ether  for 

or  being 


,re  to  me 


!P!  11 1  If 


mmM 


iiiliii  i 


iilirfli,!'' 


ysterious 
,   I   fear. 


"i  DON 'I'  THINK  I  i;vi:i!  iikakd  iiim  mi;n'ii()n  yoiu  name' 


402 


h 


You  don't  even  believe  all  I  have  told  you  about  myself 
— you  think  it  all  a  somnambulistic)  invention  of  your 
own  ;  and  so  does  your  wife,  and  so  does  your  friend. 

*'0  that  I  could  connect  myself  in  your  mind  with  the 
shape  I  wore  when  I  was  last  a  living  thing  I  No  shape 
on  earth,  not  either  yours  or  Leah's  or  that  of  any  cliild 
yet  born  to  you  both,  is  more  beautiful  to  the  eye  that  has 
learned  how  to  see  than  the  fashion  of  that  lost  face  and 
body  of  mine. 

*'  You  wore  the  shape  once,  and  so  did  your  father 
and  mother,  for  you  were  Martians.  Leah  was  a  Martian, 
and  wore  it  too ;  there  are  many  of  them  here — they  are 
the  best  on  earth,  the  very  salt  thereof.  I  mean  to  be 
the  best  of  them  all,  and  one  of  the  happiest.  Oh,  help 
me  to  that  I 

"  Barty,  when  I  am  a  splendid  son  of  yours  or  a  sweet 
and  lovely  daughter,  all  remembrance  of  what  I  was  be- 
fore will  have  been  wiped  out  of  me  utitil  I  die.  But 
you  will  remember,  and  so  will  Leah,  and  both  will  love 
me  with  such  a  love  as  no  earthly  parents  have  ever  felt 
for  any  child  of  theirs  yet. 

''Think  of  the  poor  loving  soul,  lone,  wandering,  but 
not  lost,  that  will  so  trustfully  look  up  at  you  out  of 
those  gleeful  innocent  eyes  ! 

*'  llow  that  soul  has  suffered  both  here  and  elsewhere 
you  doir't  know,  and  never  will,  till  the  secrets  of  all 
hearts  shall  be  disclosed  ;  and  I  am  going  to  forget  it 
myself  for  a  few  decades — sixty,  seventy,  eighty  years 
perhaps  ;  such  happy  years,  I  hope — with  you  for  my 
father  and  Leah  for  my  mother  during  some  of  them  at 
least — and  sweet  grandchildren  of  yours,  1  hope,  for  my 
sons  and  daughters  I  Why,  life  to  me  now  will  be  al- 
most a  holid.'iv. 

"  Oh,  train  me  up  the  way  I  should  go  I     Bring  me  up 


403 


to  be  healthy  and  cliaste  and  strong  and  brave — never  to 
know  a  mean  ambition  or  think  an  ungenerous  thought 
— never  to  yield  to  a  base  or  unworthy  temptation. 

"  If  I'm  a  boy — and  I  want  to  be  a  boy  very  much 
(although,  perhaps,  a  girl  would  be  dearer  to  your  heart) 
— don't  let  me  be  either  a  soldier  or  a  sailor,  however 
much  I  may  wish  it  as  a  Josselin  or  a  Kohan  ;  don't 
bring  me  up  to  buy  or  sell  lik'^  a  Gibson,  or  deal  in  law 
like  a  Bletchley. 

'*  Bring  me  up  to  invent,  or  make  something  usotiil, 
if  it's  only  pickles  or  soap,  but  not  to  buy  and  sell  them  ; 
bring  me  up  to  build  or  heal  or  paint  or  write  or  make 
music — to  help  or  teach  or  please. 

**If  Tin  a  girl,  bring  me  up  to  be  as  much  like  Leah 
as  you  can,  and  marry  me  to  just  such  another  as  your- 
self, if  you  can  find  him.  Whether  I'm  a  girl  or  a  boy, 
call  me  Marty,  that  my  name  may  rhyme  with  yours. 

"When  my  conscience  re-embo(liec>  itself,  1  want  it 
never  to  know  another  pang  of  self-reproach.  And  when 
I'm  grown  up,  if  you  think  it  right  to  do  so,  tell  me  who 
and  what  I  once  was,  that  I  may  love  you  both  the  more  ; 
tell  me  how  fondly  I  loved  you  when  I  was  a  bland  and 
fleeting  little  animalcule,  without  a  body,  but  making 
my  home  in  yours — so  that  when  you  die  I  may  know 
how  irrevocably  bound  up  together  we  must  forever  be, 
we  three  ;  and  rejoice  the  more  in  your  death  and  Leah's 
and  my  own.  Teach  me  over  again  all  I've  ever  taught 
you,  Barty — over  and  over  again  I 

"  Alas  !  perhaps  you  don't  believe  all  this  I  llov  can 
I  give  you  a  sign  ? 

''  There  are  many  ways  ;  but  a  law,  of  necessity  in- 
exorable, forbids  it.  Such  little  entity  as  I  possess  would 
cease  to  be  ;  it  was  all  but  lost  when  I  saved  your  life — 
and  again  when  I  told  you  that  you  were  the  beloved  of 


404 


ft 


Julia  Royno.  It  would  not  do  for  us  Martians  to  meddle 
with  earthly  things;  the  fat  would  soon  be  in  the  fire,  I 
can  tell  you  ! 

"  Try  and  trust  me,  ]5arty,  and  give  me  the  benefit  of 
any  doubt. 

"  You  have  work  planned  out  for  many  years  to  come, 
and  are  now  yourself  so  trained  that  you  can  do  without 
me.  You  know  what  you  have  still  to  say  to  mankind  ; 
never  write  a  line  about  which  you  are  not  sure. 

''  For  another  night  or  two  you  will  be  my  liost,  and 
this  splendid  frame  of  yours  my  hostelry ;  on  y  est  tres 
bien.  Be  hospitable  still  for  a  little  while  —  make  the 
most  of  me  ;  hug  me  tight,  squeeze  me  warm! 

"As  soon  as  Leah  is  up  and  about  and  lierself  again 
you  will  know  me  no  more,  and  no  more  feel  the  north. 

"Ah  !  you  will  never  realize  what  it  is  for  me  to  bid 
you  good-bye,  my  Barty,  my  Barty  !  All  that  is  in  your 
big  heart  and  powerful  brain  to  feel  of  grief  belongs  to 
me,  now  that  you  are  fast  'asleep.  And  your  genius  for 
sorrow,  which  you  have  never  really  tested  yet,  is  as 
great  as  any  gift  you  possess. 

"Happy  Barty,  who  have  got  to  forty  years  without 
sounding  the  great  depths,  and  all  through  me  !  what 
will  you  do  without  your  poor  devoted  unknown  Martia 
to  keep  watch  over  you  and  ward — to  fight  for  you  like 
a  wild-cat,  if  necessary  ? 

"  Leah  must  be  your  wild-cat  now.  She  has  it  in  her 
to  be  a  tigress  when  you  are  concerned,  or  any  of  her 
children  !  Next  to  you,  Leah  is  the  darling  of  my  heart ; 
for  it's  your  heart  I  make  use  of  to  love  her  with. 

"  I  want  you  to  tell  the  world  all  about  your  Martia 
some  day.  They  may  disbelieve,  as  you  do  ;  but  good 
fruit  will  come  of  it  in  the  future.  Martians  will  have 
a  freer  hand  with  you  all,  and  that  will  be  a  good  thing 


405 


for  the  c'jirth  ;  they  were  trained  in  a  good  hard  school 
— tliey  are  the  Spartans  of  our  universe. 

"Such  things  will  come  to  pass,  before  many  years  are 
over,  as  are  little  dreamt  of  now,  and  all  tii rough  your 
wanting  to  swallow  tliat  dose  of  cyanide  at  No.  ;}0  Hue 
des  Ursu lines  Blanches,  and  my  having  the  gumption  to 
prevent  you  ! 

"  It's  a  good  seed  that  we  hjive  sown,  you  and  I.  It 
was  not  right  that  this  beautiful  planet  shouUl  go  much 
longer  drifting  tlirough  space  witliout  u  single  hope  that 
is  not  an  illusion,  without  a  single  hint  of  what  life 
should  really  be,  without  a  goal. 

"  Why  such  darkness  under  so  bright  a  sun  !  sucli 
blindness  to  what  is  so  jxitent  !  such  a  deaf  ear  to  the 
roaring  of  that  thunderous  harmony  which  you  call  the 
eternal  silence !— you  of  tiio  earth,  earthy,  who  can  hear 
the  little  trumpet  of  the  mosquito  so  well  that  it  makes 
you  lidget  and  fret  and  fume  all  night,  and  rol)s  you  of 
your  resu.  Then  the  sun  rises  and  frightens  the  mos- 
quitoes away,  and  you  think  that's  what  the  sun  is  for 
and  are  thankful  ;  but  why  the  deuce  a  mosquito  should 
sting  you,  you  can't  make  out !— mystery  of  mysteries  ! 

''At  the  back  of  your  brain  is  a  little  speck  of  perish- 
able matter,  Barty  ;  it  is  no  bigger  than  a  needle's  point, 
but  it  is  bigger  in  you  than  in  anybody  else  I  know,  ex- 
cept in  Leah  ;  and  in  your  children  it  is  bigger  still — 
almost  as  big  as  the  point  of  a  pin  ! 

"  If  tliey  pair  well,  and  it  is  in  them  to  do  so  if  they 
follow  their  inherited  instinct,  their  children  and  their 
children's  children  will  have  that  speck  still  bigger. 
When  that  speck  becomes  as  big  as  a  millet-seed  in  your 
remote  posterity,  then  it  will  be  as  big  as  in  a  Martian, 
and  the  earth  will  be  a  very  different  place,  and  man  of 
earth  greater  and  even  bettor  thuu  the  Martian  by  all  the 


406 


greatness  of  his  .implcr,  subtler,  aiul  more  complex 
brain ;  his  sense  of  the  iJeity  will  be  as  an  eagle's  sense  of 
the  sun  at  noon  in  a  cloudless  tropical  sky ;  and  he  will 
know  how  to  bear  that  etfulgence  without  a  blink,  as  he 
stands  on  his  lonely  summit,  ringed  by  the  azure  world. 

"  Indeed,  there  will  be  no  more  Martians  in  Mars  by 
that  time  ;  they  are  near  the  end  of  their  lease  ;  all  good 
Martians  will  have  gone  to  Venus,  let  us  hope ;  if  not,  to 
the  Sun  itself  I 

"  Man  has  many  thousands  of  years  before  him  yet  ere 
his  little  ball  of  earth  gets  too  cold  for  him ;  the  little 
speck  in  his  brain  may  grow  to  the  size  of  a  pea,  a  cherry, 
a  walnut,  an  egg,  an  orange !  He  will  have  in  him  the 
magnetic  consciousness  of  the  entire  solar  system,  and 
hold  the  keys  of  time  and  space  as  long  and  as  far  as 
the  sun  shines  for  us  all  —  and  then  there  will  be  the 
beginning  of  everything.  And  all  through  that  little 
episode  in  tha  street  of  those  White  Ursulines  !  And 
the  seed  of  Barty  and  Leah  will  overflow  to  the  utter- 
most ends  of  the  earth,  and  finally  blossom  and  bear  fruit 
for  ever  and  ever  beyond  the  stars. 

"  What  a  beginning  for  a  new  order  of  things  !  what  a 
getting  up-  bairsi  what  an  awakening!  what  an  annunci- 
ation ! 

''  Do  you  remember  that  knock  at  the  door  ? 

'' '  II  est  dix  heures,  savez-vous  ?  Voulez-vous  votre 
cafe  dans  votre  chambre  ?' 

'*  She  little  knew,  poor  little  Fran  I  humble  little  Finche 
Torfs,  lowly  Flemish  virgin,  who  loved  you  as  the  moth 
loves  the  star  ;  vilain  mangeur  de  canirs  que  vous  etes  I 

*'  Barty,  I  wish  your  wife  to  hear  nothing  of  this  till 
the  child  who  once  was  your  Martia  shall  have  seen  the 
light  of  day  with  eyes  of  its  own ;  tell  her  that  I  have 
left  you  at  last,  but  don't  tell  her  why  or  how ;  tell  her 


407 


complex 
sense  of 
I  he  will 
k,  as  he 
world, 
yiurs  by 
nil  good 
'  not,  to 

yet  ere 
le  little 
cherry, 
lim  the 
■m,  and 
s  far  as 

be  the 
t  little 
!  And 
!  utter- 
ir  fruit 

what  a 
muuci- 


3  votre 

Finch  e 
3  moth 
C'tes  I 
!iis  till 
en  the 
I  have 
ill  her 


some  day,  years  hence,  if  you  think  she  will  love  me  the 
better  for  it ;  not  otherwise. 

"  When  you  wake,  Barty.  I  shall  still  be  inside  you  ; 
say  to  me  in  your  mezza  voce  all  the  kind  thins^s  you 
can  think  of  —  such  thiniTS  as  you  would  have  said  to 
your  mother  had  she  lived  till  now,  and  you  were  s^khmI- 
ing  her  on  a  long  and  uncertain  journey. 

**IIow  you  would  have  loved  your  mother  !  She  was 
most  beautiful,  and  of  the  type  so  dear  to  you.  Her 
skin  was  almost  as  white  as  Leah's,  her  eyes  almost  as 
black,  her  hair  even  blacker;  like  Leah,  she  was  tall 
and  slim  and  lithe  and  graceful.  She  might  luive  been 
Leah's  mother,  too,  for  the  likeness  between  them.  I  low 
often  you  remind  me  of  her  when  you  laugh  or  sing,  and 
when  you're  funny  in  French;  those  droll,  quick  gestures 
and  quaint  intonations,  that  ease  and  freedom  and  deft- 
ness as  you  move  I  And  then  you  become  English  in  a 
moment,  and  your  big,  burly,  fair-haired  father  has  come 
back  with  his  high  voice,  and  his  high  spirits,  and  his 
frank  blue  eyes,  like  yours,  so  kiml  and  brave  and  genial. 

*'And  you,  dear,  what  a  baby  you  were — a  very  prince 
among  babies  ;  ah  I  if  I  can  only  be  like  that  when  1 
begin  again  ! 

"The  people  in  the  Tuileries  garden  used  to  turn 
round  and  stare  and  smile  at  vou  when  Kosalie  with  the 
long  blue  streamers  bore  you  along  asi)roudlyas  if  Louis 
Philippe  were  your  grandfather  and  she  the  royal  wet- 
nurse  ;  and  later,  after  that  hideous  quarrel  about  noth- 
ing, and  the  fatal  fight  by  the  'mare  aux  biclies,'  how  the 
good  fisher  people  of  Le  Pollet  adored  you  I  *Un  vrai 
petit  St.  Jean  !  il  nous  portera  bonheur,  bion  sllr  I' 

*^You  have  been  thoroughly  well  loved  all  your  life, 
my  Barty,  but  most  of  all  by  me — never  forget  tiuit  I 

"  I  have  been  your  father  and  your  mother  when  they 


408 


t 


sat  .and  watclicd  your  hiiby-slcop ;  I  liave  been  Rosalie 
vvlicii  slie  gave  you  the  l)i'cast  ;  1  have  been  your  French 
grandfather  and  gmndmotlier  quarrelling  as  to  which  of 
the  two  should  nurse  you  as  they  sat  and  sunned  them- 
selves on  their  humble  doorstep  in  the  Rue  des  Guignes ! 

"I  have  been  your  doting  wife  when  you  sang  to  her, 
your  children  when  you  made  them  laugh  till  tliey  cried. 
I've  been  Lady  Archibald  when  you  danced  the  UiejD- 
poise  after  tea,  in  Dover,  with  your  little  bare  legs;  and 
Aunt  Caroline,  too,  as  she  nursed  you  in  Malines  after 
that  silly  duel  where  you  behaved  so  well ;  and  I've  been 
by  turns  ^[erovee  Brossard,  l^onzig,  old  Laferte,  Mile. 
Marceliiie,  Finciie  Torfs,  poor  little  ^[arianina,  Julia 
Royce,  Father  Louis,  the  old  Abbe,  ]3ob  Maurice — all  tlie 
people  you've  ever  charmed,  or  amused,  or  been  kind  to 
— a  legion ;  good  heavens  I  I  have  been  them  all  !  What 
a  snowball  made  up  of  all  these  loves  I've  been  rolling 
after  you  all  these  years  I  and  now  it  has  all  got  to  melt 
away  in  a  singh;  niglit,  and  with  it  the  remembrance  of 
all  J've  ever  been  during  ages  untold. 

''And  I've  no  voice  to  bid  you  good-bye,  my  beloved; 
no  amis  to  hug  you  with,  no  eyes  to  weep — I,  a  daughter 
of  tlio  n\ost  ait'ectionato,  and  clinging,  and  caressing  race 
of  little  people  in  existence  !  Such  eyes  as  I  once  had, 
too:  such  warm,  soft,  furry  arms,  and  smdi  a  voice — it 
would  have  wanted  no  words  to  express  all  that  I  feel 
now;  that  voice  —  nous  savons  notre  orthographie  en 
musicjue  la  bas  I 

"  How  it  will  please,  perhaps,  to  remember  even  this 
farewell  some  day,  Avhen  we're  all  together  again,  with 
iiothing  to  come  between  ! 

"And  now,  my  beloved,  there  is  no  such  thing  as  good- 
bye; it  is  a  word  that  has  no  real  meaning;  but  it  is  so 
Knglish  and  pretty  and  sweet  and  child-like  uud  uou- 


409 


sensical  that  I  could  write  it  over  and  over  again — just 
for  fun  ! 

"  So  good-bye  !  good-bye  I  good-bye !  till  I  wake  up 
once  more  after  a  long  living  sleep  of  many  years,  I 
hope ;  a  sleep  filled  with  happy  dreams  of  you,  dear,  de- 
lightful people,  whom  I've  got  to  live  with  and  love,  and 
learn  to  lose  once  more ;  and  then — no  more  good-byes  1 

*'Mautia." 


So  much  for  Martia — whoever  or  whatever  it  was  that 
went  by  tliat  name  in  Barty's  consciousness. 

After  such  close  companionship  for  so  many  years,  the 
loss  of  her — or  it — was  like  the  loss  of  a  sixth  and  most 
valuable  sense,  worse  almost  than  the  loss  of  his  siglit 
would  have  been;  and  with  this  he  was  constantly 
threatened,  for  he  most  unmercifully  taxed  iiis  remaining 
eye,  and  th  j  field  of  his  vision  had  narrowed  year  by  year. 

But  this  impending  calamity  did  not  frigiiten  him  as 
in  the  old  days.  His  wife  was  with  him  now,  and  as 
long  as  she  was  by  his  side  he  could  have  borne  any- 
ihing  —  blindness,  poverty,  dishonor  —  anything  in  the 
world.  If  he  lost  her,  he  would  survive  her  loss  just 
long  enough  to  put  his  affairs  in  order,  and  no  more. 

But  most  distressfully  he  missed  the  physical  feeling 
of  the  north— even  in  his  sleep.  This  strange  bereave- 
ment drew  him  and  Leah  even  more  closely  together,  if 
that  were  possible ;  and  she  was  well  content  to  reign 
alone  in  the  heart  of  her  fractious,  unreasonable  but 
most  affectionate,  humorous,  and  irresistible  great  man. 
Although  her  rival  had  been  but  a  name  and  an  idea, 
a  mere  abstraction  in  which  she  had  never  really  be- 
lieved, she  did  not  find  it  altogether  displeasing  to  her- 
self that  the  lively  Martia  was  no  more ;  she  has  almost 
told  me  us  much, 


410 


And  thus  began  for  them  both  the  happiest  and  most 
beautifnl  period  of  their  joint  lives,  in  spite  of  sorrows 
yet  to  come.  She  took  such  care  of  him  that  he  might 
have  been  as  l)lind  as  Belisarius  himself,  and  he  seemed 
almost  to  depend  npon  her  as  much — so  wrapt  up  was  he 
in  the  work  of  his  life,  so  indifferent  to  all  mundane  and 
})rjictical  affairs.  What  eyesight  Avas  not  wanted  for  his 
pen  and  pencil  he  reserved  to  look  at  her  with — at  his 
beloved  children,  and  the  things  of  l)eauty  in  and  out- 
side Marsfield  :  pictures,  old  china,  skies,  hills,  trees,  and 
river;  and  what  wits  remained  he  kept  to  amuse  his 
family  and  his  friends — there  was  enough  and  to  spare. 

The  older  he  grew  the  more  he  teemed  and  seethed  and 
bubbled  and  shone — and  set  others  shining  round  him — 
even  myself.  It  is  no  wonder  Marsfield  l)ecame  such  a 
singularly  agreeable  abode  for  all  who  dwelt  there,  even 
for  the  men-servants  and  the  maid-servants,  and  the  birds 
and  the  beasts,  and  the  stranger  within  its  gates  —  and 
for  me  a  kind  of  earthly  paradise. 


And  now,  gentle  reader,  I  wa?it  very  badly  to  talk 
about  myself  a  little,  if  you  don't  mind — jii  r  *'or  ha'i 
a  dozen  pages  or  so,  which  you  can  skip  ii  V'  a  like. 
Whether  you  do  so  or  not,  it  will  not  hurt  you  -i.nd  it 
will  do  me  a  great  deal  of  good. 

I  feel  uncommonly  sad,  and  \ .  ry  lonely  indeed,  now 
that  Harty  is  gone ;  and  with  him  my  beloved  comrade 
Leah. 

The  only  people  left  to  me  that  I'm  really  fond  of  —ex- 
cept my  dear  widowed  sister,  Ida  Scatcherd — are  all  so 
young.  They're  Josselins,  of  course — one  and  all — and 
they're  all  that's  kind  and  droll  and  charming,  and  1 
adore  them.  But  they  can't  quite  realize  what  this  sort 
of  bereavement  moans  to  a  man  of  just  my 


*gv, 


and  most 
tf  sorrows 

he  might 
le  seemed 
Lip  was  he 
idane  and 
3d  for  his 
;h — at  liis 

and  out- 
trees,  and 
-muse  his 
0  spare, 
etlied  jind 
nd  him — 
ae  such  a 
lere,  even 

the  birds 
tes  —  and 


to   talk 

f(»r  lia'f 

>  a  like. 

I  ~;.nd  it 


eed,  now 
comrade 

I  oi  — ex- 
iro  all  so 
Mil — iind 
g,  and  I 
this  sort 
who  has 


"  'I'm   a   PIin.ISTINK,  AND   AM  NOT   ASIIAMKD' 


412 


^■ 


still  got  some  years  of  life  before  him,  probably  —  and  is 
yet  an  old  man. 

Tiie  Right  Honorable  Sir  Robert  Maurice,  Bart.,  M.P., 
etc.,  etc.,  etc.  That's  me.  I  take  up  a  whole  line  of 
manuscript.  I  might  be  a  noble  lord  if  I  chose,  and  take 
up  two  I 

I'm  a  liberal  conservative,  an  opportunist,  a  pessi-opti- 
mist,  an  in-medio-tutissimist,  and  attend  divine  service 
at  the  Temple  Church. 

I'm  a  Philistine,  and  not  ashamed  ;  so  was  Moli6re — 
so  was  Cervantes.  So,  if  you  like,  was  the  late  Martin 
Farquhar  Tupper — and  those  who  read  him ;  we're  of  all 
sorts  in  Philistia,  the  greit  and  the  small,  the  good  and 
the  bad. 

I'm  in  the  sixties — sound  of  wind  and  limb — only  two 
false  teeth — one  at  each  side,  bicuspids,  mereiy  for  show. 
I'm  rather  bald,  but  it  suits  my  style ;  a  little  fat,  per- 
jai)s — a  pound  and  a  half  over  sixteen  stone  !  but  I'm  an 
inch  and  a  half  over  six  feet,  and  very  big-boned.  Al- 
together, diablement  bien  conserve  !  I  sleep  well,  the 
sleep  of  the  just ;  I  have  a  good  appetite  and  a  good  di- 
gestion, and  a  good  conceit  of  myself  still, 'thank  Heaven 
— though  notiiing  like  what  it  used  to  be  ?  One  can  sur- 
vive the  loss  of  one's  self  -  respect  j  but  of  one's  vanity, 
never. 

What  a  prosperous  and  happy  life  mine  has  been,  to 
be  sure,  up  to  a  few  short  months  ago  —  hardly  ever  an 
ache  or  a  i)ain  ! — my  only  real  griefs,  my  dear  mother's 
death  ten  years  ba(!k,  and  my  father's  in  1870.  Yes,  I 
have  warmed  both  hands  at  the  lire  of  life,  and  even 
burnt  my  lingers  now  and  then,  but  not  severely. 

One  love  disappointment.  The  sting  of  it  lasted  a 
couple  of  years,  the  compensation  more  than  thirty  !  I 
loved  her  uU  the  better,  perhaps,  that  I  did  not  marry 


413 


—  and  is 

e  lino  of 
and  tako 

essi-opti- 
e  service 

»Ioli6re — 
e  Martin 
i're  of  all 
^ood  and 

only  two 
'or  show, 
fat,  per- 
it  Fm  an 
cd.  Al- 
vell,  the 
sjood  di- 

Ileaven 
can  sur- 

vanity, 

been,  to 
ever  an 
notlier's 
Yes,  I 
lid  even 

asted  a 
rty!  I 
uuirry 


her.     I'm  afraid  it  is  not  in  nie  to  love  a  very  >^ood  wife 
of  my  own  as  ninch  as  I  really  ought ! 

And  I  love  her  cliildren  as  well  as  if  they'd  been  mine, 
and  her  grandchildren  even  better.  They  are  irresistible, 
these  grandchildren  of  Barty'sand  Leah's — mine  wouldn't 
have  been  a  patch  on  them  ;  besides,  I  get;di  the  fiiii  and 
none  of  the  bother  and  anxiety.  Evidently  it  was  my 
true  vocation  to  remain  single — and  be  a  tauie  cat  in  a 
large,  warm  house,  where  there  are  lots  of  nice  children. 

0  happy  Bob  ^laurice  !     0  happy  sexagenarian  I 

"  0  me  fortunucum,  mea  si  bona  norir.i  I"  ( What 
would  Pere  Brossard  say  at  this  ?  he  would  give  uie  a 
twisted  pinch  on  the  arm — and  serve  me  right  I) 

I'm  very  glad  I've  been  successful,  though  it's  not  a 
very  high  acliievement  to  make  a  very  large  fortune  by 
buying  and  selling  that  which  put  into  a  mau's  mouth  is 
said  to  steal  away  his  brains  I 

But  it  does  better  things  than  this.  It  reconciles  and 
solves  and  resolves  mental  discords,  like  music.  It  makes 
music  for  people  who  have  no  ear — ;ind  there  arc  so  uiany 
of  these  in  the  world  that  I'lu  a  millionaire,  and  Franz 
Schubert  died  a  pauper.  So  I  prefer  to  drink  beer — as 
he  did;  and  I  never  miss  a  Monday  Pop  if  I  can  iu'lp  it. 

1  have  done  better  things,  too.  \  iiavt*  iu'Iped  to 
govern  my  country  and  make  its  laws  ;  hut  it  all  came 
out  of  wine  to  begin  with — all  from  learning  how  to  buy 
and  sell  .  We're  a  nation  of  shoitkc  'pers,  although  the 
French  keep  better  shops  than  ours,  and  more  of  them. 

I'm  glad  I'm  successful  because  of  liai'ty.  although 
success,  which  brings  the  world  to  our  feet,  does  not 
always  endear  us  to  the  friend  of  our  bosom.  If  1  had 
been  a  failure  Barty  would  have  stuck  to  me  like  a  brick, 
I  feel  sure,  instead  of  my  sticking  to  him  like  a  leech  ! 
And  the  sight  of  his  success  might  have  soured  me — that 


4U 


c 


eternal  chorus  of  praise,  tliat  perpetual  feast  of  pudding 
in  which  I  should  have  had  no  part  but  to  take  my  share 
as  a  mere  guest,  and  listen  and  look  on  and  applaud,  and 
wish  Fd  never  been  born  I 

As  it  is,  I  listened  and  looked  on  and  clapped  my  hands 
with  as  much  pride  and  pleasure  as  if  Barty  had  been  my 
son — and  my  share  of  the  pudding  never  stuck  in  my 
tiiroat  I 

I  should  have  been  always  on  the  watch  to  take  him 
down  a  peg  when  he  was  pleased  with  himself — to  hold 
him  cheap  and  overpraise  some  duffer  in  his  hearing — so 
that  I  might  save  my  own  self-esteem  ;  to  pay  him  bad 
littk^  left-handed  compliments,  him  and  his,  whenever  I 
was  out  of  humor  ;  aiul  I  should  have  been  always  out  of 
humor,  having  failed  in  life. 

And  then  I  should  have  gone  home  wretched — for  I 
have  a  conscience — and  woke  up  in  the  middle  of  the 
night  and  thought  of  Barty  ;  and  what  a  kind,  genial, 
jolly,  large-mimled,  and  generoiis-heurted  old  chap  he 
was  and  always  had  be^in — and  buried  my  face  in  my  pil- 
low, and  muttered  : 

**  Ach  I  what  a  poor,  moan,  jealous  beast  I  am — un  fruit 
sec  !  un  malheureux  rate  !" 

With  all  my  success,  this  life-long  exclusive  cultivation 
of  Barty's  society,  and  that  of  his  artistic  friends,  which 
has  somehow  unfitted  me  for  the  society  of  my  brother- 
merchants  of  wine — and  most  merchants  of  everything 
else — has  not,  I  regret  to  say,  quite  fitted  me  to  hold 
my  own  among  the  '*  leaders  of  intellectual  modern 
thouglit,"  whose  company  1  would  fain  seek  and  keep 
in  ])reference  to  any  other. 

My  very  wealth  seems  to  depress  and  disgust  them,  as 
it  does  me— and  Tm  no  genius,  I  admit,  and  a  poor  con- 


versationa 


list. 


415 


pudding 
ny  share 
lud,  and 

ly  hands 
been  my 
\  in  my 

ake  him 
-to  liold 
ring — so 
liim  bad 
enever  I 
^s  out  of 

a— for  I 

3  of  the 

genial, 

liap   lie 

my  pil- 

un  fruit 

tivation 
,  which 
)rother- 
ry  thing 
:o  hold 
modern 
d  keep 

lem,  as 
■or  con- 


To  amass  wealth  is  an  engrossing  pursuit  —  and  now 
that  I  have  amassed  a  good  deal  more  than  I  (|uite  know 
what  to  do  with,  it  seems  to  nu;  a  very  ignoble  one.  It 
chokes  up  everything  that  makes  life  worth  living ;  it 
leaves  so  little  time  for  the  constant  aiul  regular  i)ra{'tioe 
of  those  ingenuous  arts  which  faithfully  to  have  learned 
is  said  to  soften  the  manners,  and  make  one  an  iigreeable 
person  all  round. 

It  is  even  more  ubrKtismnt  than  the  mere  pursuit  of 
sport  or  pleasure. 

How  many  a  noble  lord  I  know  who's  almost  as  beastly 
rich  as  myself,  and  twice  as  big  a  fool  by  nature,  aiul  per- 
haps not  a  better  fellow  at  bottom — yet  who  can  com- 
mand the  society  of  all  there  is  of  the  best  in  science, 
literature,  and  art  I 

Not  but  what  they  will  come  and  dine  with  me  fast 
enough,  these  shining  lights  of  culture  and  intellect — my 
food  is  very  good,  although  I  say  it,  and  1  get  noble 
lords  to  meet  them. 

But  they  talk  their  real  talk  to  each  other — not  to  me — 
and  to  the  noble  lords  who  sit  by  them  at  my  table,  and 
who  try  to  understand  what  they  say.  With  me  they  fall 
back  on  politics  and  bimeUillism,  for  all  the  pains  I've 
taken  to  get  up  the  subjects  that  interest  them,  and  keep 
myself  posted  in  all  they've  written  and  done.  Precious 
little  they  know  about  bimetallism  or  2)olitics  ! 

Is  it  only  on  account  of  their  pretty  manners  that  my 
titled  friends  are  such  favorites  with  these  highly  in- 
tellectual guests  of  mine  —  aiul  with  me?  If  so,  then 
pretty  manners  should  come  before  everything  else  in  the 
world,  and  be  taught  instead  of  Latin  and  (ireek. 

But  if  it's  only  because  they're  noble  lords,  then  I'm 
beginning  to  think  with  Mr.  Labouchere  that  it's  high 
time  the  Upper  House  were  abolished,  and  its  denizens 


416 


wafted  into  space,  since  they  make  such  snobs  of  us  all — 
including  your  humble  servant,  of  course,  who  at  least 
is  not  quite  so  snobbish  as  to  know  himself  for  a  damned 
snob  and  pretend  he  isn^'t  one. 

Anyhow,  Fm  glad  my  life  has  been  such  a  success. 
But  would  I  liv3  it  all  over  again  ?  Even  the  best  of  it? 
The  *' forty  year"? 

Taking  one  consideration  with  another,  most  decidedly 
not. 

I  have  only  met  two  men  of  my  own  age  who  would 
live  their  lives  over  again.  They  both  cared  more  for 
their  meals  than  for  anything  else  in  the  world — and  they 
have  always  had  four  of  these  every  day  ;  sometimes  even 
five  !  plenty  of  variety,  and  never  a  meal  to  disagree  with 
them  !  affaire  d'estomac  !  They  simply  want  to  eat  all 
those  meals  once  more.  They  lived  to  feed,  and  to  re- 
feed  would  re-live  ! 

My  meals  have  never  disagreed  with  me  either — but  I 
have  always  found  them  monotonous  ;  they  httve  always 
been  so  simple  and  so  regular  when  I've  had  the  ordering 
of  them  !  Fried  soles,  chops  or  steaks,  and  that  sort  of 
thing,  and  a  pint  of  lager-beer — no  wine  for  me,  thank 
you  ;  I  sell  it — and  all  this  just  to  serve  as  a  mere  foun- 
dation for  a  smoke — and  a  chat  with  Harty,  if  possible  ! 

Hardly  ever  an  ache  or  a  pain,  and  I  wouldn't  live  it 
all  over  again  !  yet  I  hope  to  live  another  twenty  years, 
if  only  to  take  Leah's  unborn  great-grandchihlren  to  the 
dentist's,  and  tip  them  at  school,  and  treat  them  to  the 
pantomime  and  Madame  T^issaud's,  as  I  ditl  their  moth- 
ers and  grandmothers  before  them — or  their  fathers  and 
grandfathers. 

This  seems  rather  inconsistent !  For  would  I  care, 
twenty  years  hence,  to  re-live  these  coming  twenty  years? 
Evidently  not — it's  out  of  the  question. 


4n 


i  of  us  all — 
'ho  at  least 
r  a  damned 

a  success, 
best  of  it? 

t  decidedly 

who  would 
i  more  for 
— and  they 
jtimes  even 
5agrec  with 
;  to  eat  all 
and  to  Te- 
ller— but  I 
fcive  always 
le  ordering 
Kit  sort  of 
me,  thank 
nere  foun- 
possible  ! 
n't  live  it 
nty  years, 
ren  to  the 
em  to  the 
leir  moth- 
ithers  and 


So  why  don't  I  give  up  at  once  ?    I  know  how  to  do  it 
without  pain,  without  scandal,  without  even  invalidating 
my  hfe-msurance.  a])out  which  I  don't  care  a  rap  !  "^ 

Why  don't  I  V  why  don't  you,  0  middle-aged  reader— 
with  all  the  infirmities  of  ago  before  you\ind  all  the 
pleasures  of  youth  behind  ?  Anyhow,  we  don't,  either 
you  or  I— and  so  there's  an  end  on't. 

0  Pandora  !  I  have  promised  myself  tliat  I  would 
take  a  great-grandchild  of  IJarty's  on  a  flying-machine 
from  Marsiield  to  London  and  l)ack  in  half  a.i  hour— 
and  that  great-grandchild  can't  well  be  born  for  several 
years— perhaps  not  for  another  twenty  ! 

And  now,  gentle  reader,  I've  had  my  little  say,  and 
I'm  a  good  deal  better,  thanks,  and  I'll  ti  v  not  to'  talk 
about  myself  any  more. 

Except  just  to  mention  that  in  the  summer  of  ISTG  I 
contested  East  Kosherville  in  tbe  Conservative  int(>rest 
and  was  successful-and  owed  my  success  to  the  canvass- 
ing of  Bnrty  and  Leah,  who  had  no  politics  of  their  own 
whatever,  and  would  have  canvassed  for  me  just  as  con- 
scientiously if  I'd  been  a  Radical,  probal.ly  more  so  !  For 
if  J3arty  had  permitted  himself  un\  politics  nt  all  he 
would  have  been  a  red-hot  JJadicul,  i  fcar-and  his  wife 
would  have  followed  suit.     And  so,  perhaps,  would  I  ! 

27 


d  I  care, 
uty  years? 


part  S^entb 

"Je  suis  alio  de  boii  matiu 

Cueillir  la  violette, 
Et  I'aubepine,  et  le  jasmin, 

Pour  celebrer  ta  fOte, 
J'ai  lie  de  ma  propre  main 
Bouton  de  rose  ot  romarin 

Pour  courouiier  ta  blonde  tete. 


"  Mais  de  ta  royale  beaute 
Sois  humble,  je  te  prie. 
Ici  tout  meurt,  la  fleiir,  I'ete, 

La  jeunesse  et  la  vie  : 
Bientot,  bieiitot  ce  jour  sera, 
Ma  belle,  oil  I'ou  le  portera 

Dans  un  linecul,  pile  et  fletrie." 

— A  FtiDorite  Song  of  Mauy  Trevor's. 

That  was  a  pleasant  summer. 

First  of  all  we  went  to  Ste.  Adresse,  a  suburb  of 
Havre,  where  there  is  very  good  bathing — with  rafts, 
perissoircs,  pique-tetes  to  dive  from — all  those  aquatic  de- 
lights the  French  are  so  clever  at  inventing,  and  which 
make  a  '^station  biilnoaire"  so  much  more  amusing  than 
a  mere  British  watering-place. 

We  made  a  large  party  and  bathed  together  every 
morning  ;  and  Barty  .tiid  I  taught  the  young  ones  to  dive 
and  do  '*  la  coupe  "  in  the  true  orthodox  form,  with  that 
free  horizontal  sweep  of  each  alternate  arm  that  gives  it 
such  distinction. 


419 


It  was  very  good  fun  to  see  those  rosy  boys  and  girls 
taking  their  ^'hussardes"  neatly  without  a  splash  from 
the  little  platform  at  the  top  of  the  pole,  and  solemnly 
performing  -  la  coupe"  in  the  wake  of  their  papa  ;  one 
on  iiis  back.  Kight  out  to  sea  they  went,,  I  bringi-ig  up 
the  rear-and  the  faitliful  Jean-Baptiste  in  attendance 
with  his  boat,  and  Leah  inside  it— her  anxious  eves  on 
the  stretch  to  count  those  curly  heads  again  aiuragain. 
She  was  a  good  mathematician,  and  the  tale  always  came 
right  in  the  end  ;  and  home  was  reached  at  last,  and  no 
one  a  bit  the  worse  for  a  good  long  swim  in  those  well- 
aired,  sunlit  waves. 

Once  we  went  on  the  top  of  the  diligence  to  ^tretat 
for  the  day,  and  there  we  talked  of  poor  Bonzig  and  his 
first  and  last  dip  in  the  sea  ;  and  did  "  la  coupe  "  in  the 
waters  that  had  been  so  fatal  to  him,  poor  fellow  ! 

Then  we  went  by  the  steamer  Jean  Bart  to  Trou- 
viUe  and  Deauville,  and  up  the  Seine  in  a  steam-launch 
to  Rouen. 

In  the  afternoons  and  evenings  we  took  long  country 
walks  and  caught  moths,  or  went  to  Havre  by  tramway 
and  cleared  out  all  the  pastry-cooks  in  the  Hue  de  Paris, 
and  watched  the  transatlantic  steamers,  out  or  home,' 
from  that  gay  pier  which  so  happily  combines  business 
with  pleasure— utile  dulci,  as  Pere  Brossard  would  have 
said— and  walked  home  by  the  charming  Cote  d'lngou- 
ville,  sacred  to  the  memory  of  Mo<leste  Miguon. 

Aiul  then,  a  little  later  on,  I  was  a  good  Uncle  Bob, 
and  took  the  whole  party  to  Auteuil,  near  Paris,  and 
hired  two  lordly  nuuisions  next  door  to  each  other  in  the 
Villa  Montmorency,  and  turned  their  gardens  into  one. 

Altogether,  with  the  Scatcherds  and  ourselves,  eight 
children,  governesses,  nurses,  and  other  servants,  and 
dogs  and  the  smaller  animals,  we  were  a  very  large  party, 


420 


W 


and  a  very  lively  one.  I  like  this  sort  of  thing  better 
than  anytiiing  else  in  the  world. 

I  hired  carriages  and  horses  galore,  and  for  six  weeks 
we  made  ourselves  thoroughly  comfortable  and  at  home 
in  Paris  and  around. 

That  was  the  happiest  holiday  I  ever  had  since  the 
vacation  Barty  and  I  spent  at  the  Lafertes'  in  the  Gue  des 
Aulnes  when  we  were  school-boys. 

And  such  was  our  love  for  the  sport  he  called  "  la 
chasse  aux  souvenirs"  tliat  one  day  we  actually  went 
there,  travelling  by  train  to  La  Tremblaye,  where  we 
spent  the  night. 

It  was  a  sad  disenchantment ! 

The  old  Lafertes  were  dead,  the  yo'  g  ones  had  left 
that  part  of  the  country  ;  and  the  li  and  wluit  re- 

mained of  the  gardens  now  belonged  to  another  family, 
and  had  become  formal  and  mean  and  business-like  in 
aspect,  and  much  reduced  in  size. 

Much  of  the  outskirts  of  tlie  forest  had  been  cleared 
and  was  being  cleared  still,  and  cheap  little  houses  run 
up  lor  workmen;  an  immense  and  evil-smelling  factory 
with  a  tall  chiiuney  had  replaced  the  old  home-farm,  and 
was  connected  by  a  single  line  of  rails  with  the  station  of 
La  Trembhiye.  Tiie  clear,  pellucid  stream  where  we  used 
to  catch  crayfish  had  been  canalized — "  s'est  encanaille," 
as  Barty  called  it  —  its  waters  fouled  by  barge  traffic  and 
all  kinds  of  horrors. 

We  soon  found  the  haunted  pond  that  Barty  was  so 
fond  of — ])ut  quite  in  the  open,  close  to  an  enorinous 
brick-field,  and  onlv  half  full  ;  and  with  all  its  trees  cut 
down,  including  the  tree  on  which  they  had  hanged  the 
gay  young  Viscount  who  had  behaved  so  badly  to  Sera- 
phine  Doucet,  and  on  which  Seraphine  Doucet  after- 
wards hanged  herself  in  remorse. 


421 

Xo  more  friendly  cluircoal-biirners,  no  mor'3  nolvcs  or 
bourn  or  cerfs-dix-cors  :  and  as  for  wero-wolves,  the  very 
memory  of  tliem  liad  died  out. 

There  seems  no  greater  desecration  to  me  than  cutting 
down  an  old  and  well-remem])ered  French  forest  1  have 
loved  ;  and  solving  all  its  mystery,  and  laying  hare  the 
nakedness  of  the  land  in  a  Avay  so  brutal  and  expeditious 
and  unexpected.  It  reminds  one  of  the  manner  in  Nvhi,.}, 
Frencii  market-women  will  pluck  a  goose  before  it's  quite 
dead;  you  bristle  with  indignation  to  see  it,  but  you 
mustn't  interfere. 

La  Tremblaye  itself  had  become  a  flourishing  nmnu- 
facturing  town,  and  to  our  jaundiced  and  disilhisioned 
eyes  everybody  and  everything  was  as  ugly  as  could  be- 
and  I  can't  say  we  made  much  of  a  bag  in  the  way  of 
souvenirs. 

We  were  told  that  young  Laferte  was  a  barrister  at 
Angers,  prosperous  and  married.  We  deliberated  whether 
we  would  hunt  him  up  and  talk  of  old  times.  Then  we 
reflected  how  curiously  cold  and  inhospitable  Frenchmen 
can  sometimes  be  to  old  English  friends  in  circumstances 
like  these— and  how  little  they  care  to  talk  of  old  times 
and  all  that,  unless  it's  the  Englishman  who  plays  the 
host. 

Ask  a  quite  ordinary  Frenchman  to  come  and  dine 
with  you  in  London,  and  see  what  a  genial  and  charming 
person  he  can  be— wiuit  a  quick  bosom  friend,  and  with 
Avhat  a  glib  and  silver  tongue  to  praise  the  warmth  of 
your  British  welcome. 

Then  go  and  call  on  him  when  you  ijiid  vouiself  in 
Paris-and  you  will  soon  learn  to  Iciive  quite  ordinary 
Frenchmen  alone,  on  their  own  side  of  the  Channel. 

Happily,  there  are  exceptions  to  this  rule  ! 

Thus  the  sweet  Laferte  remembrance,  which  had  so 


422 


often  come  back  to  me  in  my  dreams,  was  forever  spoiled 
by  this  unlucky  trip. 

It  had  turned  that  leaf  from  the  tablets  of  my  memory 
into  a  kind  of  palimpsest,  so  that  I  could  no  long-?r  quite 
r.iake  out  the  okl  handwriting  for  the  new,  which  would 
not  bo  obliterated,  and  these  were  confused  lines  it  was 
hard  to  read  between — with  all  my  skill  ! 

Altogether  we  were  uncommonly  glad  to  get  back  to 
the  Villa  Montmorency — from  the  distorted  shadows  of 
a  nightmare  to  happy  reality. 

There,  all  was  fresh  and  delightful ;  as  boys  we  had 
often  seen  the  outside  walls  of  that  fine  property  which 
had  come  to  the  speculative  builder  at  last,  but  never  a 
glimpse  within  ;  so  that  there  ras  no  desecration  for  us 
in  the  modern  laying  out  of  that  beautiful  double  garden 
of  ours,  wliatever  there  might  have  been  for  such  ghosts 
of  Montmoreucys  as  chose  to  revisit  the  glimpses  of  the 
moon. 

We  haunted  Auteuil,  Passy,  Point  du  Jour,  Suresnes, 
Courbevoie,  Neuilly,  Meudon  —  all  the  familiar  places. 
Especially  wo  often  haunted  the  neighborhood  of  the 
rond  point  de  I'Avenue  dn  Bois  de  lioulogne. 

One  afternoon,  as  he  and  I  and  Leah  and  Ida  were 
d  'iving  round  what  once  was  our  old  school,  we  stopped 
in  the  lane  not  far  from  the  porte-cochere,  and  Barty 
stood  up  on  the  box  and  tried  to  look  over  the  wall. 

Presently,  from  the  grand  stone  logo  which  had  re- 
placed fJaurion's  den,  a  ni(!e  old  (H)ncierge  came  out  and 
asked  if  we  desired  any  tiling.  We  told  him  how  once  we 
had  been  at  school  on  tliat  very  spot,  and  were  trying  to 
make  out  the  old  trees  that  had  served  as  bases  in  *'  la 
hallo  au  camp,"  and  that  if  we  really  desired  any  tiling 
just  then  it  was  that  we  might  become  school-boys  oncG 
more ! 


423 


a 


la 


OllCG 


**Ah,  ma  foi  !  je  compreiuls  9a,  messieurs — nioi  aussi, 
j'ai  ete  eeolier,  et  j'aimais  bien  la  balle  au  camp,"  said  the 
good  old  man,  who  had  been  a  soldier. 

He  informed  us  the  family  were  away,  but  that  it'  we 
liked  to  come  inside  and  see  the  garden  he  was  sure 
his  master  would  have  no  ol)je('tl()n.  We  jumped  at  this 
kind  offer  and  spent  quite  an  hour  there,  and  if  I  M-ere 
J^irty  I  could  so  describe  the  emotions  of  that  hour 
t'lat  the  reader  would  feel  quite  as  tearfully  grateful 
to  me  as  to  Barty  Josselin  for  Chapters  III.  and  IV.  in 
Le  Fil  de  la  Vicrge,  which  are  really  founded,  mutatis 
mutandis,  on  this  self-same  little  adventure  of  ours. 

Nothing  remained  of  our  old  school — not  even  the  outer 
walls;  nothing  but  the  big  trees  and  the  absolute  ground 
they  grew  out  of.  JJeautiful  lawns,  liower-beds,  con- 
servatories, summer-houses,  ferns,  and  evergreen  shrubs 
made  the  place  seem  even  larger  than  it  had  once  been — 
the  very  reverse  of  what  usually  hai)pens — and  softened 
for  us  the  disenchantment  of  the  change. 

Here,  at  least,  was  no  desecration  of  a  hallowed  spot. 
When  the  past  has  been  dead  and  buried  a  long  while  ago 
there  is  no  sweeter  decking  for  its  grave  than  a  rich 
autunm  tangle,  all  yellow  and  brown  and  pale  and  hectic 
red,  with  glossy  evergreens  and  soft,  damp  moss  to  keep 
up  the  illusi(»u  of  spring  ami  summer  all  the  year  round. 

Much  to  the  amusement  of  the  old  concierge  and  his 
wife,  Jiarty  insisted  on  climbing  into  a  huge  horse- 
'jhestnut  tree,  in  which  was  a  natural  seat,  very  high  up, 
where,  well  hidden  by  the  dense  foliage,  he  and  I  used  to 
color  pipes  for  boys  who  couldn't  smoke  without  feeling 
sick. 

Nothing  would  suit  him  now  but  that  he  must  smoke  a 
pipe  there  while  we  talked  to  the  good  old  couple  below. 

•' Moi   aussi,  je   fumais   quand   c'etait   defendu ;   que 


424 


voiiloz-voiis  ?  11  f:iut  Men  quo  jeunesso  so  passe,  n'est  ce 
pus  r"'  suid  the  ohl  soi.'lier. 

*'Ah,  dame!"  said  his  old  wife,  and  sighed. 

Every  tree  in  this  enolianted  place  had  its  history — 
every  corner,  every  s([uare  yard  of  soil.  1  will  not  inflict 
tliese  histories  on  the  reader;  I  will  restrain  niysell'  with 
all  my  might,  and  merely  state  that  just  as  tiie  old  school 
had  heen  replaced  l)y  this  noble  dwelling  the  nolde 
dwelling  itself  has  now  been  replaced,  trees  and  garden 
and  all,  by  a  stately  palace  many  stories  high,  which 
rears  itself  among  so  many  other  stately  palaces  that  1 
can't  even  identify  the  spot  where  once  stood  the  Institu- 
tion F.  lirossard ! 

Later,  Barty  made  me  solemidy  pledge  my  word  that  if 
he  and  Leah  should  pre-decease  me  I  would  see  to  their 
due  cremating  and  the  linal  mingling  of  their  ashes;  that 
a  portion  of  these — say  half — should  be  set  ai)art  to  be 
scattered  on  French  soil,  in  places  he  would  indicate  in 
his  will,  an*!  tha^  the  lion's  share  of  that  half  should  be 
sprinkled  over  the  ground  that  once  was  our  play-ground, 
with — or  without — the  legitimate  owner's  permission. 

(Ahis!  and  ah  nu^ !  I'hese  instructions  would  iiave 
been  carried  out  to  the  letter  but  that  the  place  itself  is 
no  moro  ;  and,  with  a  co]ivicti()n  that  1  should  be  merely 
acting  jusb  us  they  would  have  wished,  1  took  it  on  myself 
to  mingle  with  their  ashes  those  ol'  a  very  sweet  and  dar- 
ling child  of  theirs,  dearer  to  them  and  to  me  and  to  us 
uU  than  anv  (creature  ever  born  into  this  cruel  universe  ; 
and  1  scattered  a  portioji  oL'  these  precious  remains  to 
the  four  winds,  close  by  the  old  spot  we  so  loved.) 


Yes,  that  was  a  memorable  holiday;  the  charming  fete 
de  8t.  Cloud  was  in  full  swing  —  it  was  delightful  to 
liuuut  it  once  more  with  those  dear  young  people  so  littlo 


425 


dreamt  of  when  Barty  aiul  I  first  got  into  scrapes  there, 
and  were  duly  punished  hy  Latin  verbs  to  conjugate  in 
our  best  handwriting  for  iJonzig  or  Dumollard. 

Then  he  and  I  wouhl  exph)re  t'le  so  changed  liois  de 
Boulogne  for  tlie  little  "Mare  aux  l^iches,"  where  his 
father  had  fallen  under  the  sword  of  Lieutenant  Hon- 
delys  ;  but  we  never  managed  to  liml  it:  })erhaps  it  had 
evaporated  ;  perhaps  the  does  had  drunk  it  all  up,  l)efore 
they,  too,  had  been  made  to  vanish,  before  the  (Jerman 
invader — or  inside  him;  for  he  was  fond  of  French  vetii- 
son,  as  well  as  of  French  clocks  I  \h^  was  a  most  omniv- 
orous person. 

Then  Paris  had  endless  charms  for  us  both,  aiul  we 
relieved  ourselves  at  last  of  that  long  homesickness  of 
years,  and  could  ahnost  believe  we  were  boys  again,  as  we 
dived  into  such  old  and  well-remembered  streets  as  yet 
remained. 

There  were  still  some  slums  we  had  loved ;  one  or  two 
of  them  exist  even  now.  Only  the  other  day  I  saw  the 
Uuo  de  Clerv,  the  Hue  de  la  Jjune,  the  Uiw.  de  la  ^lon- 
tagne  —  all  tliree  on  the  south  side  of  the  iioulevard 
Bonne  Nouvelle  :  they  are  still  terrible  to  look  at  from 
the  genial  Boulevard,  even  by  broad  (hiylight— the  houses 
so  tall,  so  irreguhir,  the  streets  so  luirrow  and  winding 
and  black.  They  seemed  to  us  boys  terrilde,  indeed,  be- 
tween eight  and  nine  on  a  winter's  evening,  with  just  a 
lamp  hero  and  there  to  nuUve  their  darkness  visihU. 
Whither  they  h'd  I  can't  say;  we  never  dared  ex|(h)re 
their  obscure  and  mysterious  I'ecesses.  'I'hey  may  have 
ended  in  the  coar  des  mirarh's  for  all  we  knew — it  was 
nearly  fifty  years  ago — and  they  may  l)e  (piile  virtuous 
abodes  of  poverty  to-day;  but  they  seemed  to  w^  then 
strange,  labyrinthine  abysses  of  (jrime  and  se(;ret  dens  of 
infamy,  where  dreadful  deeds  were  done  in  the  dead  of 


426 


long  winter  nights.  Evidently,  to  us  in  those  days,  who- 
ever sliould  lose  himself  there  would  never  see  daylight 
again ;  so  wc  loved  to  visit  them  after  dark,  Avith  our 
hearts  in  our  mouths,  hefore  going  hack  to  school. 

We  would  sit  on  posts  within  call  of  the  cheerful  Boule- 
vard, and  watch  mysterious  women  hurry  up  and  down  in 
the  cold,  out  of  darkness  into  light  and  hack  again,  poor 
creatures — dingy  moths,  silent  hut  ominous  night-jars, 
forlorn  women  of  the  town — ill-favored  aiul  ill-dressed, 
some  of  them  all  but  middle-aged,  in  common  caps  and 
aprons,  with  cotton  umbrellas,  like  cooks  looking  for  a 
situation. 

They  never  spoke  to  us,  and  seemed  to  be  often  brutal- 
ly repulsed  by  whatever  men  they  did  speak  to — mostly 
men  in  blouses. 

"6  dis-donc,  Iforian&o  !  ({w'yfatt  froid  !  «|uand  done  qu'y 
s'ra  djizc  heures,  q'nous  allions  nous  coilchm'  ?" 

So  said  one  of  them  to  another  one  cold,  drizzly  night, 
in  a  raucous  voice,  with  low  intonations  of  the  gutter. 
The  dimly  felt  horror  and  despair  and  i)atlios  of  it  sent  us 
away  shivering  to  our  Passy  omnibus  as  fast  as  our  legs 
could  carry  us. 

That  phrase  has  stuck  in  my  memory  ever  since. 
Thank  Heaven!  the  eleventh  hour  must  have  struck 
long  ago,  aiul  lEortcnse  and  her  friend  must  be  fast  asleep 
and  well  out  of  the  cold  by  now — they  need  walk  those 
evil  streets  no  more.  .  .  . 

When  we  had  exhausted  it  all,  and  we  felt  houiosick 
for  England  again,  it  was  good  to  get  back  to  Marstiehl, 
liirjh  up  over  the  Thames — so  beautiful  in  its  rich  October 
colors  which  the  river  reflected — with  its  old  trees  that 
grew  down  to  the  water's  edge,  and  brooded  by  the  boat- 
house  there  in  the  mellow  sunshine. 

And  then  again  when  it  became  cold  and  dreary,  at 


427 


Christmas-time  there  was  my  big  lioiise  at  Lancaster 
Gate,  whore  Josselins  were  foiicl  of  spending  some  of  tlie 
winter  montlis,  and  vhere  1  managed  to  find  room  for 
them  all — with  a  little  squeezing  during  the  Christmas 
holidays  when  the  boys  came  home  from  school.  What 
good  times  tliey  were  ! 


'"On  May  S^i'lth,  at  Marstield,  Berks,  the  wife  of  Bar- 
tholomew Josselin,  of  a  daughter" — or,  as  Leah  put  it  in 
her  diary,  "our  seventh  daugliter  and  ninth  child — to 
be  called  Martia,  or  Marty  for  short." 

It  seems  that  Marty,  prepared  ))y  her  first  ablution  for 
this  life,  and  as  she  lay  being  powdered  on  Mrs.  Jones's 
motherly  lap,  was  of  a  different  type  to  her  predecessors — 
much  wdiiter,  and  lighter,  and  slighter  ;  and  she  nuide  no 
exhibition  of  that  lusty  lung-power  which  had  so  char- 
acterized the  otiier  little  Barties  on  their  introduction  to 
this  vale  of  tears. 

Her  face  was  more  regularly  formed  and  more  highly 
finished,  and  in  a  few  weeks  grew  of  a  ])eauty  so  solemn 
and  pathetic  that  it  would  sometimes  make  Mrs.  Jones, 
who  had  lost  l)abies  of  her  own,  siiod  motherly  tears 
merely  to  look  at  her. 

Even  1  felt  sentimental  a'oout  the  chihl;  and  as  for 
Barty,  he  could  talk  of  notiiing  else,  aiul  made  tiiose 
rough  ami  luisty  silver-[)oint  studies  of  iier  iiead  and 
face — mere  sketches — which,  being  full  of  obvious  faults, 
became  so  quickly  famous  among  a'sthetic  and  exclusive 
people  who  had  long  given  up  liar  I  y  as  a  writer  on  ac- 
count of  his  scandalous  popularity. 

Alas!  even  those  silver-points  have  become  pojtular 
now,  and  their  photogravures  are  in  the  shojj-windows 
of  sea-side  resorts  and  in  the  back  parlors  of  the  lower 
middle-class ;  so  that  the  tcsthetic  exclusivcs  who  are  up 


428 


s 


to  (late  have  had  to  give  up  Barty  altogether.  No  one  is 
sacred  in  these  days — not  even  Shakespeare  and  Michael 
Angelo. 

We  shall  be  hearing  Schumann  and  Wagner  on  the 
piano-organ,  and  •'•  nous  autres  "  of  the  cultured  classes 
will  have  to  fall  back  on  IJalfe  and  Byron  and  Landsecr. 

In  a  few  months  little  Marty  became  famous  for  this 
extra  beauty  all  over  lleidey  and  Maidenhead. 

She  soon  grew  to  be  the  idol  of  her  father's  heart,  and 
her  mother's,  and  Ida's.  But  I  really  think  that  if  there 
was  one  person  who  idolized  her  more  than  all  the  rest, 
it  was  I,  Bob  Maurice. 

She  was  extremely  lelicate,  and  gave  us  much  anxiety 
aiul  many  alarms,  ami  Dr.  Knight  was  a  very  constant 
visitor  at  Marsf'cld  Lodge.  It  was  fortunate,  for  her 
sake,  that  the  Josselins  had  left  Campden  Hill  and  made 
tiieir  home  in  Marsfield. 

Nine  of  these  children — including  one  not  yet  born 
then — developed  there  into  the  linest  and  completest 
hunum  beings,  take  them  for  jdl  in  all,  that  I  have  ever 
known;  nine — a  good  nund)er  ! 

*' Numero  Deus  imparegaudet." 

Or,  as  poor  1iaj)aud  translated  this  (and  Avas  pinched 
black  and  blue  by  Pere  Brossard  in  consequence) : 

*'  Le  numero  deux  se  rejouit  d'etre  impair  !"  (Num- 
ber two  takes  a  pleasure  in  being  odd  !) 

The  three  sons — one  of  them  now  in  the  army,  as  be- 
(Hunes  a  Rohan;  and  one  a  sailor,  as  becomes  a  Josselin  ; 
and  one  a  fanmus  actor,  the  true  Josselin  of  all — are  the 
very  types  of  what  I  should  like  for  the  fathers  of  my 
grandchildren,  if  I  had  nuirriageable  daughters  of  my 
own. 

And  as  for  Barty's  daughters,  they  are  all — but  one — 
80  well  known  in  society  and  the  world — so  famous,  I 


I 


429 


0  one  IS 
Micluiel 

on  tlio 

1  classes 
indseer. 
for  this 

iirt,  Jind 

it'  there 

he  rest, 

iinxiety 
constant 

for  her 
id  Tntide 

'et  born 
npletest 
IV e  ever 


pinched 
(Nuin- 

r,  US    bo- 

^osselin  ; 
-ure  the 
s  of  my 
s  of  my 

it  one — 
imous,  1 


may  say — that  I  need  hjirdly  mention  them  here ;  all  but 
Marty,  my  sweet  little  ''maid  of  Dove." 

When  Barty  took  Marsfield  he  and  I  had  entered  what 
I  have  ever  since  considered  the  happiest  decade  of  a 
successful  and  healthy  man's  life — tiie  forties. 

'*  Wait  till  you  get  to  forty  year  T 

So  sang  Thackeray,  Ijut  with  a  very  different  experi- 
ence to  mine.  lie  seemed  to  look  upon  tlie  fifth  decade 
as  the  grave  of  all  tender  illusions  and  :mot''^ns,  and 
exult! 

My  tender  illusions  and  emotions  became  realties — 
things  to  live  by  and  for.  As  Barty  and  I  ''  dipped  our 
noses  in  the  Gascon  wine" — Vougeot-C  Miti  &  Co. — I 
blessed  my  stars  for  being  free  of  MarsHel  ',  which  was, 
and  is  still,  my  real  home,  and  for  the  warm  friendship 
of  its  inhabitants  who  have  been  my  real  family,  and  for 
several  years  of  unclouded  hapjiiness  all  round. 

Even  in  winter  what  a  joy  it  was,  after  a  long  solitary 
walk,  or  ride,  or  drive,  or  railway  journey,  to  suddenly 
find  myself  at  dusk  in  the  midst  of  all  that  warmth  and 
light  and  gayety ;  what  a  contrast  to  the  House  of  Com- 
mons; what  a  relief  after  Barge  Yard  or  Downing  Street ; 
what  tea  that  was,  what  crumpets  aud  buttered  toast, 
what  a  cigarette  ;  what  romps  and  jokes,  and  really  jolly 
good  fun;  and  all  that  delightful  untaught  music  that 
afterwards  became  so  cultivated!  Music  was  a  special 
inherited  gift  of  the  entire  family,  and  no  trouble  or 
expense  was  ever  gpared  to  make  the  best  and  the  most 
of  it. 

Roberta  became  the  most  finished  and  charming  ama- 
teur })ianist  I  ever  heard,  and  as  for  Mary  la  rosKiy nolle 
— Mrs.  Trevor — she's  almost  as  famous  as  if  she  had  made 
singing  her  })r()fession,  as  she  once  so  wished  to  do.  She 
married  happily  instead,  a  better  profession  still ;  and 


4:^0 


\. 


thonsfh  her  songs  are  as  higlily  paid  for  as  any — except, 
])er]iups,  Madame  Patti's — every  penny  goes  to  the  poor. 

She  can  make  a  nigger  melody  sound  wortliy  of  Scliu- 
l)ert  and  a  song  of  Scluunann  go  down  with  tlie  eonimon 
liord  as  if  it  were  a  nigger  meh)dy,  and  ol)taiii  a  genuine 
encore  for  it  from  quite  sim])le  people. 

Wiiy.  only  the  other  night  she  and  her  hushand  dined 
with  me  iit  the  liristol,  and  wo  went  to  Baron  S<  wartz- 
kind's  in  Piccadilly  to  meet  Royal  Jlighnesses. 

Up  comes  the  liaroii  with: 

*'Ach,  Mrs.  Dreforl  vill  you  not  zing  zomzingPze 
Brincess  vould  he  so  jarmt." 

"  rii  sing  as  much  as  you  like,  Baron,  if  you  promise 
me  you'll  send  a  checque  for  £00  to  the  Foundling  Hospi- 
tal to-morrow  morning/'  says  Mary. 

^*/'ll  send  another  fifty.  Baron."  says  Boh  ^faurice. 
And  the  Baron  had  to  comply,  and  ]\[ary  sang  again  and 
again,  and  the  Princess  Avas  more  than  charmed. 

She  declared  herself  enchanted,  and  vet  it  was  Brahms 
and  Schumann  that  AEary  sang;  no  pretty  little  English 
hallad,  no  French,  no  Italian. 


"  Aus  incincn  Thnlncn  spricsson 
Viel'  hlulioudc!  Bliinu'ii  liervor  ; 
Uiul  nu'ine  Scuf/.e  wcrdcti 
Eiii  Nachtisrallou  Chor.  .  .  ." 


So  sang  Mary,  and  I  declare  some  of  the  royal  eyes 
were  moist. 

They  all  sang  and  played,  these  Josselins;  and  tumhled 
and  acted,  and  were  droll  and  original  and  fetching,  as 
their  father  had  heen  and  was  still;  and,  like  him,  amiahle 
and  full  of  exuherant  life;  and,  like  their  mother,  kind 
and  appreciative  and  sympathetic  and  ever  thoughtful  of 
others,  without  a  grain  of  selfishness  or  conceit. 


-except, 
he  poor. 
)f  Sc'liu- 
'oniiiion 
i^enuine 

(\  dined 
wartz- 


iiig  ?  ze 


promise 
J  Ilospi- 

fanrioe. 
tiiii  and 

Brahms 
English 


il  eyes 

in])led 
iiig,  as 
iiiahle 
,  kind 
ful  of 


4 


/ 


'^i^^M' 


♦"  ZE  BRINCES8  VOULD  BE  SO  JABMT' 


^          — — 

433 

girls  alike  ; 
oars.     And 
they  might 
themselves, 

They  were  also  great  athletes,  boys  and 
good  swimmers  and  riders,  and  first-rate 
though  not  as  good  at  hooks  and  lessons  as 
have  been,  they  did  not  absolutely  disgrace 
being  so  quick  and  intelligent. 

c. 


Amid  all  tliis  geniality  and  liveliness  at  home  and  this 
beauty  of  surrounding  luiture  abroa<l,  little  Marty  seemed 
to  outgrow  iu  a  measure  her  constitutional  delicacy. 

It  was  her  aml)ition  to  become  as  athletic  as  a  boy, 
and  she  was  persevering  in  all  physical  exercises — and 
threw  stones  very  stniight  and  far,  with  a  quite  easy 
masculine  sweep  of  the  arm  ;  I  taught  her  myself. 

Tt  was  also  her  ambition  to  draw,,  and  she  wonld  sit 
for  an  hour  or  more  on  a  high  stool  by  her  father,  or  on 
the  arm  of  his  chair,  and  watch  him  at  his  work  in  si- 
lence. Then  she  would  get  herself  paper  and  pencil, 
and  try  and  do  likewise ;  but  discouragement  would 
overtake  lier,  and  she  would  have  to  give  it  uji  in  de- 
spair, with  a  heavy  sigh  aiul  a  clouded  look  on  her  lovely 
little  pale  face  ;  and  yet  they  were  surprisingly  clever, 
these  attempts  of  hers. 

Then  she  took  to  dictating  a  novel  to  her  sisters  and 
to  me  :  it  was  all  about  an  immense  dog  and  three 
naughty  boys,  who  were  awful  dunces  at  school  and  ran 
away  to  sea,  dog  and  all ;  and  performed  heroic  deeds 
in  Central  Africa,  and  grew  up  there,  ''booted  and 
bearded,  and  burnt  to  a  ])rick  !"  and  never  married  or 
fell  in  love,  or  stooped  to  any  nonsense  of  that  kind. 

I'his  novel,  l)egun  in  the  handwriting  of  all  of  us,  and 
continued  in  her  own,  remained  unfinislied  ;  and  the 
precious  MS.  is  now  in  my  possession.  I  luive  read  it 
oftener  tlian  iiny  other  novel,  French  or  English,  except, 
perhaps,  VanHij  Fair  I 

1  may  say  tluit  I  had  something  to  do  with  the  devel- 


Is  alike  ; 
rs.  And 
3y  might 
imselves, 

and  this 
1^  seemed 
icy. 

3  a  boy, 
ies — and 
ite  easy 
L 

oiild  sit 
r,  or  on 
rk  in  si- 
pencil, 
;  would 
)  in  de- 
r  lovely 
clever, 

Brs  and 
i  three 
md  ran 
!  deeds 
ed  and 
ried  or 
id. 

IS,  and 
tid  the 
read  it 
:^xce])t, 

devel- 


4m 


opment  of  her  literary  faculty,  as  T  read  many  good 
books  to  her  before  she  coul<1  road  quite  comfortably 
for  herself:  Evcniufjs  at  Ilmno,  The  S/riss  Fdnn'Ii/  Ixob- 
inson,  GuUii'cr,  Iiobinso)i  Crusoe,  books  by  BaUantyno, 
Marryat,  Mayne  Kcid,  Jules  Verne,  etc.,  and  Treasure 
fsland,  Tom  Saunjer,  IIio  /r/eberri/  Finn,  The  Wreck  of 
the  Grosvenor,  and  tlien  her  father's  books,  or  some  of 
them. 

But  I'Ven  better  than  her  famous  novel  wore  the  sto- 
ries she  improvised  to  me  in  a  small  boat  which  I  often 
rowed  up-stream  while  she  steered  -one  story,  in  par- 
ticular, that  had  no  end ;  she  would  take  it  up  at  any 
time. 

She  had  imagined  a  world  wliere  all  trees  and  flowers 
and  vegetation  (and  some  birds)  were  the  size  they  are 
now;  but  men  and  beasts  no  bigger  than  Lilliputians, 
with  houses  and  churches  and  buildings  to  match — and  a 
family  called  Josselin  living  in  a  beautiful  house  called 
Marsfield,  as  big  as  ti  piano  organ. 

Endless  were  the  adventures  by  flood  and  field  of  these 
little  people  :  in  the  huge  forest  and  on  the  gigantic 
river  whi(!h  it  took  them  nearly  an  liour  to  cross  in  a 
steam-launch  when  the  wind  was  high,  or  riding  trained 
carrier-pigeons  to  distant  counties,  and  the  coasts  of 
Noruiand),  Brittany,  and  Picardy,  where  everything  was 
on  a  similar  scale. 

It  would  astonish  me  to  find  how  vivid  and  real  she 
could  make  these  iuiaginations  of  hers,  and  to  me  how 
fascinating — oddly  enough  she  reserved  them  for  me  only, 
and  told  no  one  else. 

There  was  always  an  immensely  big  strong  nuin,  one 
Bobby  Maurice,  a  good-natured  giant,  nearly  three  inches 
high  and  over  two  ounces  in  weight,  who  among  other 
feats  would  eai.  a  whole  pea  at  a  sitting,  and  hold  out  an 

38 


4St 


acorn  at  arm's-leiigtli,  and  tlirow  a  pepper-corn  over  two 
yards — wliicli  has  remained  the  record. 

Then,  coming  back  down-stream,  she  would  take  tlie 
sculls  and  I  the  tiller,  and  I  would  tell  her  (in  French) 
all  ahout  our  school  adventures  at  IJrossard's  and 
Bonzig,  and  the  Lafertcs.  and  the  Revolution  of  Feb- 
ruary ;  and  in  that  way  she  picked  up  a  lot  of  useful 
and  idiomatic  Farisiaji  which  considerably  astonished 
Friiulcin  Werner,  the  Ciernuin  governess,  who  yet  knew 
French  almost  as  well  as  her  own  language — almost  as 
well  as  Mr.  Ollendorif  himself. 

She  also  changed  one  of  the  heroes  in  her  famous 
novel.  Tommy  IluU,  into  a  French  boy,  and  called  him 
Jiff  pa  (((I! 

She  was  even  more  devoted  to  animals  than  the  rest 
of  the  family  :  the  beautiful  Angora,  Kitty,  died  when 
Marty  was  live,  from  an  abscess  in  her  cheek,  where 
she'd  been  bitten  by  a  strange  bull-terrier;  and  Marty 
tearfully  wrote  h{n'  epitaph  in  a  beautiful  round  hand — 


"Here  lies  Kilty,  full  of  j^ruce ; 
Died  of  tui  nb/jetis  in  lier  face  !" 

This  was  her  first  attempt  at  verse-making,  and  here's 
her  last,  from  the  French  of  Sully-Prudhomme  : 

"If  you  but  knew  what  tears,  alas  ! 
On(.'  weeps  for  liinsliip  unbestowed, 
In  pity  you  would  sometimes  pass 
Mj'  poor  abode  ! 


"If  you   but  liiiew  wliat  balm,  for  all 
Despond,  lii's  in  an  angel's  glance, 
Your  looks  would  on  my  window  fall 
As  though  by  chance  ! 


4:i5 

"If  yow  but  knew  the  heart's  delight 
To  feel  its  fellow-heart  is  by, 
You'd  linger,  as  a  sisttr  might, 
These  gates  niiigh  ! 

"If  you  ])iil.  knew  lunv  oft  I  yoirn 

For  one  sweet  voice,  o!ie  prescnee  dear, 
Perhaps  you'd  even  simply  turn 
And  enter  hero  !" 


re  S 


She  wtis  only  just  seventeen  wlien  she  wrote  them, 
and,  upon  my  word,  I  think  they're  tilmost  us  good  as  tlie 
origiiuil  I 

Her  intimate  friendsliip  with  Cliucker-out,  the  Inige 
St.  Bernard,  lasted  for  nearly  both  their  lives,  alas  !  It 
began  when  they  both  weighed  exactly  the  same,  and  I 
could  carry  both  in  one  arm.  When  he  died  he  turned 
the  scale  at  sixteen  stone,  like  me. 

It  has  lately  become  the  lashion  to  paint  big  dogs  and 
little  girls,  and  engravings  of  these  pictures  are  to  be 
seen  in  all  the  print-sellers'  shops.  It  always  touches 
me  very  much  to  look  at  these  works  of  art,  tdthough 
—and  I  hope  it  is  not  libellous  to  say  so— the  big  dog 
is  always  hoi)elessly  inferior  in  beauty  and  dignity  and 
charm  to  Chucker-out,  who  was  champion  of  hisday. 
And  as  for  the  little  girls—     Ah,  man  Dicu  ! 

Such  pictures  are  not  high  art  of  course,  jind  that  is 
why  I  don't  possess  one,  as  I've  got  an  esthetic  charac- 
ter to  keep  up  ;  but  why  they  shouldn't  be  I  can't  guess. 
Is  it  because  no  higii  artist—except  Briton  Eiviere— will 
stoop  to  so  easily  understood  ti  subject  ? 

A  great  master  would  not  be  above  painting  a  small 
child  or  a  big  dog  separately— why  should  he  be  tibove 
putting  them  both  in  the  same  picture  ?  It  would  be  too 
obvious,  I  suppose— like  a  melody  by  Mozart,  or  Han- 


436 


V 


V 


(lei's  *'  Harmonious  Blacksmith,"  or  Schubert's  Sere- 
nade, and  otlier  catchpenny  tunes  of  the  same  descrip- 
tion. 

/was  also  very  intimate  with  Cliucker-out,  who  made 
more  of  me  tlian  lie  even  did  of  his  master. 

One  night  1  c^ot  very  late  to  Marsfield  by  the  last 
train,  and.  lotting  myself  in  with  my  key,  I  found 
Ohucker-out  waiting  for  me  in  the  hall,  and  apparently 
in  a  very  anxious  frame  of  mind,  and  extremely  demon- 
strative, wanting  to  say  something  more  tiian  usual — to 
confide  a  trouble,  to  confess  ! 

V>  e  went  up  into  the  big  music-room,  which  was  still 
lighted,  and  lay  on  a  coucii  together  ;  he,  with  his  head 
on  my  knees,  whimpering  softly  as  I  smoked  and  read 
a  paper. 

Presently  Leah  came  in  and  said  : 

''Such  an  unfortunate  tbing  happened;  Marty  and 
Chucker  -  out  were  playing  on  the  slope,  and  he  knocked 
her  down  aiul  sprained  her  knee." 

As  soon  as  Chucker-out  heard  Martv'^  name  he  sat  up 
and  whined  piteously,  and  pawed  me  tlown  with  great 
violence ;  piiwed  three  buttons  off  my  waistcoat  and 
broke  mv  watch-chain — couldn't  be  comforted;  the  mis- 
adventure  had  been  preying  on  his  mind  for  hours. 

1  give  this  subject  lo  Mr.  Briton  Kiviere,  who  can 
paint  both  dogs  and  children,  and  everything  else  he 
likes.  I  will  sit  for  him  myself,  if  he  wishes,  and  as  a 
Catholic  priest!  lie  might  (.'all  it  a  confession — and  an 
absolution  !  or,  "The  Secrets  of  the  Confessional." 

The  good  dog  became  more  (careful  in  future,  and  re- 
strained his  exuberance  even  going  down -stairs  with 
Marty  on  the  way  to  m  I'amljlo  in  the  woods,  which  ex- 
cited him  more  than  anytiiing;  if  he  (!ame  down -stairs 
with  anybody  else,  the  violence  of  his  joy  was  such  that 


437 


one  had  to  hold  on  by  the  banisters.  lie  was  a  dear, 
good  beast,  and  a  splendid  body-guard  for  Marty  in  her 
solitary  woodland  rambles — never  left  her  side  for  a  sec- 
ond. I  have  often  watched  him  from  a  distance,  un- 
beknown to  both;  he  was  proud  of  his  responsibdity — 
almost  fussy  about  it. 

I  have  been  fond  of  many  dogs,  but  never  yet  loved  a 
dog  as  I  loved  big  Ciuicker-out— or  C/ioucnnllc,  as  Cora- 
lie,  the  French  nuud,  called  him,  to  Friiulein  Werner's 
annoyance  ((JhoucroCito  is  French  for  sauerkraut) ;  and 
1  like  to  remeirber  him  in  his  spU'iulid  prime,  guarding 
his  sweet  little  mistress,  whom  I  loved  better  tlian  any- 
thing else  on  earth.  Slie  was  to  me  a  kind  of  pet  Mar- 
jorie,  and  said  such  droll  and  touching  things  that  I 
could  almost  till  a  book  with  them.  I  kept  a  diary  on 
purpose,  and  called  it  IMt'rtiana. 

She  was  tall,  but  lamentably  thin  and  sliglit,  poor 
dear,  with  her  motherV;  piercing  black  eyes  and  the 
very  fair  aurly  locks  of  her  pai)a  — a  curious  and  most 
effective  contrast — and  features  ami  a  complexion  of  such 
extraordinary  delicacy  and  loveliness  that  it  ahnost  gave 
one  i)ain  in  the  midst  of  the  keen  pleasure  one  had  in 
the  mere  looking  at  her. 

Heavens  !  how  that  face  wouhl  light  up  su(hlcidy  at 
catching  the  unexpected  sight  of  some  one  she  was  fond 
of!  How  often  it  has  lighted  up  at  tlie  nnex[)e('te(l 
sight  of  "Uncle  Hob"!  'I'lie  mere  renuMubraiU'e  of  that 
sweet  illumination  hriglitcns  my  old  age  for  nu^  now  ; 
and  I  could  almost  wish  Ik  r  l);i('k  again,  in  my  senile 
seltishness  and  in(H)nsistencv.      I'a/ienza  ! 

t.' 

Sometimes  she  was  quite  embarrassing  in  her  sim- 
plicity, and  reminded  me  of  her  father. 

Once  in  Dieppe— when  she  was  about  eight— she  ami  I 
had  gone  through  the  Etablissement  to  bathe,  and  people 


438 


5 1 


hud  sturod  at  her  even  more  than  usual  and  whispered  to 
eacli  otlior. 

"  I  bet  you  don't  know  why  they  all  stare  so.  Uncle 
Bob  r 

"  I  give  it  up,"  said  I. 

**  It's  because  I'm  so  iHonhomc — we're  nil  liandsome, 
you  know,  and  I'm  the  handsomest  of  the  h)t,  it  seems  ! 
Yoiiva  nut  handsome,  irncle  lioh.  Jiul  oii  I  aren't  you 
droiKj !  Wliy,  you  could  tuck  apiou-piou  under  one  arm 
and  a  postman  umler  the;  oLluir  and  walk  up  to  the  castle 
with  them  and  pitch  them  into  tlie  sea,  cuhWhI  you? 
And  that's  ])etter  than  being  handsome,  hut  it  ?  I  wisli 
/was  like  that." 

And  here  she  cuddled  and  kissed  my  hand. 

When  Mary  began  to  sing  (under  Signor  ]{.)  it  was  her 
custom  of  an  afternoon  to  lock  herself  up  alone  with  a 
tuning-fork  in  a  large  garret  and  practise,  as  she  was  shy 
of  singing  exercises  before  any  one  else. 

Her  voice,  even  practising  scales,  would  give  Marty 
extraordinary  pleasure,  and  me.  too.  ^larty  and  I  have 
often  sat  outside  and  listened  to  Mary's  rich  and  fluent 
vocalizings  ;  and  1  hoped  that  Marty  would  develop  a 
great  voice  also,  as  she  was  so  like  .Mary  in  face  and 
disposition,  except  that  Mary's  eyes  were  blue  and  her 
hair  very  black,  and  her  health  unexceptiou;il>lc. 

Marty  did  not  develo})  a  real  voice  although  she  sang 
very  prettily  and  coniulentially  to  nie.  iind  worked  hard 
at  the  piano  with  Ivoherta;  she  learned  harmony  and 
composed  little  songs,  an<l  wrote  words  to  them,  and 
Mary  or  her  father  would  sing  them  to  her  ;ind  nuike  her 
hai)py  beyond  description. 

Happy  !  sue  was  always  hap]>y  during  the  first  few 
years  of  lu'r  life — from  flvc  or  six  to  twelve. 

I   like    to   think    lu-r   hapi>iness  was  so  great  for  this 


m 


439 


)p  Jl 
iiiid 
her 


brief  period,  tluit  slie  had  her  full  share  of  human  felic- 
ity just  as  if  she  had  lived  to  the  age  of  the  Psalmist. 

It  seemed  everybody's  business  at  Marsfield  to  see  that 
Marty  had  a  good  time.  This  was  an  easy  task,  as  she 
was  so  easy  to  amuse;  and  when  amused,  herself  so 
amusing  to  (*thers. 

As  for  me,  it  is  hardly  too  mueh  to  say  that  every 
hour  I  could  spare  from  business  and  the  eares  of  state 
was  s])eut  in  organizing  the  amusement  ol'  little  ^larty 
Josselin,  and  I  was  foolish  enougli  to  be  almost  jealous 
of  her  own  father  and  mother's  devotion  to  the  same 
object. 

Uidike  her  brothers  anti  sisters,  she  was  a  studious 
little  person,  and  fond  of  books — too  much  so  indeed, 
for  all  she  was  su(di  a  tond)oy  ;  aiul  all  this  amusement 
was  designed  by  us  with  the  purpose  of  winning  her 
away  from  the  too  sedulous  ])ursuit  of  knowledge.  I 
may  add  that  in  tempei-  and  sweetness  of  disposition  the 
child  was  simply  angelic,  ami  could  not  be  spoiled  by 
any  spoiling. 

It  was  during  these  ]iap[)y  years  at  jNEarsfield  that 
]5arty  although  bereft  of  Jiis  Martiti  ever  since  that  fare- 
well lei>er,  managed,  nevertheh'ss.  to  do  his  best  work,  on 
lines  previously  laid  down  for  him  by  her. 

For  tile  lirst  year  or  two  he  missed  tiie  feeling  of  the 
north  most  paiuf'illy — it  was  like  the  loss  of  a  sense — but 
lie  gi'cw  in  time  accustomed  to  thi^  j)ri^ati(»n,  and  ((uito 
resigiu'd  ;  and  Aiai  ly.  whom  hi'  worslii|>|)c(l— as  did  her 
mother — coni[)ensalc(l  iiiuL  for  tiie  h»ss  of  his  demon. 

Jnncccssihh'  //riii/t/s,  Fhn'i'al  el  l'nicliilni\  The  htfinite- 
Iji  lAHle,  The  yin'thi'ni  l*((rh)h(s,  /'uin/on'.  rf  w/  /iui/c, 
i'di.'-rr  ((till  ('(I prirai')!,  l*Ji(i'ln(H  el  Si-liiii'  followed  ea<'h 
other  in  Kusureiy  succession.  And  lie  also  found  time 
for  those  controversies  that  so  moved  and  amused  the 


440 


Vl 


i 


world  ;  among  others,  liis  famous  and  triumphant  confu- 
tation of  Canon ,  on  one  hand,  and  Professor , 

the  famous  scientist,  on  the  other,  which  has  been  com- 
pared to  the  chissic  litigation  about  the  03\ster,  since  the 
oyster  itself  fell  to  Barty's  share,  and  a  shell  to  each  of 
the  two  disputants. 

Orthodox  and  agnostic  are  as  the  poles  asunder,  yet 
they  could  not  but  both  agree  with  Barty  Josselin,  who 
so  cleverly  extended  a  hand  to  each,  and  acted  as  a 
conductor  between  them. 

That  irresistible  optimism  which  so  forces  itself  upon 
ail  Josselin's  readers,  who  nunil)er  by  now  half  the  world, 
and  will  probably  one  day  include  the  whole  of  it — when 
the  whole  of  it  is  civilized — belonged  to  him  by  nature, 
by  virtue  of  his  health  and  his  magnificent  physique  and 
his  happy  circumstances,  and  an  admirably  balanced 
mind,  which  was  better  fitted  for  his  particular  work 
ami  for  the  world's  good  than  any  special  gift  of  genius 
in  one  direction. 

Ilis  literary  and  artistic  work  never  cost  him  the  slightest 
effort.  It  amused  him  to  draw  and  write  more  tliaii  did 
anything  else  in  the  world,  and  he  always  took  great 
pains,  and  delighted  in  taking  them  ;  but  himself  he 
never  took  seriously  for  one  monumt  —  never  realized 
what  lui})piness  he  gave,  and  wms  (|uite  unconscious  of  the 
true  value  of  all  he  tliouglit  and  wrought  and  taught  ! 

He  laughed  gooil-humoredly  at  the  passionate  praise 
that  for  thirty  years  was  jwured  upon  him  from  all 
quarters  of  the  globe,  and  shrugged  his  shoulders  at  the 
coarse  invective  of  those  whose  religious  susceptibilities 
he  had  so  inm)cently  wounded  ;  left  all  publisluul  insults 
uminsweretl  ;  never  noticed  any  lie  printed  about  himself 
— never  wrote  a  paragraph  in  explanation  or  self-defence, 
but  smoked  many  pipes  and  mildly  wondered. 


441 


Indeed  he  was  mildly  woiidoriiig  all  his  life:  at  his 
luck — at  all  the  ease  and  success  and  warm  domestic  bliss 
that  had  so  compensated  him  for  the  loss  of  his  left  eye 
and  would  almost  have  compensated  him  for  the  loss  of 
both. 

"It's  all  because  Fm  so  deuced  good-lookin<,^  !"  says 
Barty — *•  and  so's  Leah  V 

And  all  his  life  he  sorrowed  for  those  who  were  less 
fortunate  than  himself.  His  charities  and  those  of  his 
wife  were  immense — he  gave  all  the  money,  and  she  took 
all  the  trouble. 

**  C'est  papa  qui  paie  et  manuin  qui  regale,"  as  Marty 
would  say  ;  and  never  were  funds  distributed  more  wisely. 

But  often  at  odd  moments  the  Weltschmerz,  the  sorrow 
of  the  world,  would  pierce  this  man  who  no  longer  felt 
sorrows  of  his  own — stab  him  through  and  through — bring 
the  sweat  to  his  temples — lill  his  eyes  with  that  strange  pity 
and  trouble  that  moved  you  so  deeply  when  you  caught 
the  look  ;  and  soon  the  complicated  anguish  of  that  dim 
regard  would  resolve  itself  into  gleams  of  a  ([uite  celes- 
tial sweetness — and  a  heavenly  message  would  go  forth 
to  mankind  in  such  simple  words  that  all  might  read  who 
ran.  .  .  . 

All  these  endowments  of  the  heart  and  brain,  which  in 
him  were  masculiiu!  and  active,  were  possessed  in  a  passive 
form  by  his  wife  ;  instead  of  the  buoyant  energy  and  bois- 
terous high  spirits,  she  had  patience  ami  persistency 
that  one  felt  to  be  indomitable,  and  a  silent  sympathy 
that  never  failed,  and  a  fund  of  cheerfulness  and  good 
sense  on  which  any  call  migiit  be  mad<'  by  life  without 
fear  of  bankruptcy;  she  was  of  those  wluj  (•()uld  i)lay  a 
losing  game  and  help  others  to  play  it — and  she  never 
had  a  losing  game  to  play  ! 

These  gifts  were  inherited  by  their  children,  who,  more- 


443 


s 


over,  were  so  fed  on  their  father's  books — so  imbued  with 
them — that  Oi  3  felt  sure  of  their  courage,  endurance, 
and  virtue,  whatever  misfortunes  or  temptations  might 
RSfjail  them  in  this  life. 

One  felt  this  especially  with  the  youngest  but  one, 
Marty,  who,  with  even  more  than  her  due  share  of  tliose 
gifts  of  the  head  and  lieart  they  had  all  inherited  from 
their  two  parents,  had  not  inherited  their  splendid  frames 
and  invincible  health. 

Roderick,  (dias  Mark  Tai)ley,  alias  Chips,  who  is  now 
the  sailor,  was,  oddly  enough,  the  strongest  and  the  hard- 
iest of  the  whole  family,  and  yet  he  was  born  two  years 
after  Marty.  She  always  declared  she  brought  him  up 
aiul  made  a  man  of  him,  aiul  taught  him  how  to  throw 
stones,  and  how  to  row  and  ride  and  swim  ;  and  that  it 
Avas  entirely  to  her  he  owed  it  that  he  was  worthy  to  be 
a  sailor — her  ideal  profession  for  a  man. 

He  was  devoted  to  her,  and  a  sj)lendid  little  chap,  and 
in  the  holidays  he  and  she  aiul  I  were  inseparable,  aiul 
of  course  Chucker-out,  who  went  with  us  wherever  it 
was — Iirivrc,  I)iep2)e,  Dinard,  the  Highlands,  Whitby,  etc. 

Once  we  were  privileged  to  settle  ou'selves  for  two 
mouths  in  Castle  liohan,  through  the  kindness  of  Lord 
Whitby;  and  that  was  the  best  holiday  of  all — for  the 
young  people  especially.  And  more  especially  for  Jiarty 
himself,  who  had  such  delightful  boyish  recollet!tioiis  of 
that  deligiitful  })lace,  and  found  many  old  friends  among 
the  sailors  and  fisher  people — who  remembered  him  as  a 
boy. 

Chips  and  Marty  and  1  and  the  faithful  Chucker-out 
were  never  happier  than  on  those  staiths  where  there  is 
always  such  an  ancient  and  lishlike  smell ;  we  never  tired 
of  watching  the  miraculous  drauglits  of  silver  herring 
being  disentangled  from  the  nets  and  counted  into  bas- 


led  with 
iimnce, 
s  might 

ut  one, 
of  those 
h\  from 
I  frames 

)  is  now 
lie  hard- 
^o  years 
him  up 

0  throw 

1  that  it 
by  to  he 

lap,  and 

jle,  and 

ever  it 

)y,  etc. 
'or  two 
Lord 

or  tile 
r  Harty 

ions  of 

among 
im  as  a 

ver-out 
here  is 
ur  tired 
lerring 
to  bas- 


443 


kets,  Avhich  were  carried  on  the  lioads  of  the  stalwart, 
scaly  fishwomen,  and  paelved  witli  salt  and  ice  in  innu- 
merable barrels  for  Billingsgate  and  other  great  markets  ; 
or  else  the  sales  by  auction  of  huge  cod  and  dark-gray 
dog-fish  as  they  lay  helpless  all  of  a  row  on  the  wet  Hags 
amid  a  crowd  of  sturdy  mariners  looking  on,  with  their 
hands  in  their  pockets  and  their  pipes  in  their  mouths. 

Then  over  that  restless  little  bridge  to  the  picturesque 
old  town,  and  through  its  long,  narrow  street,  and  up  the 
many  stone  stops  to  the  ruined  abbey  and  the  old  church 
on  the  East  Cliff ;  and  the  old  churchyard,  where  there 
are  so  many  stones  in  memory  of  those  who  were  lost  at 
sea. 

It  was  good  to  be  there,  in  such  good  company,  on 
a  sunny  August  morning,  and  look  around  and  about 
and  down  below  :  the  miles  and  miles  of  purple  moor, 
the  woods  of  Castle  Rolian,  the  wide  North  Sea,  wliich 
turns  such  a  heaveidy  blue  beneatii  a  cloudless  sky  ;  tlie 
two  stone  piers,  with  each  its  lighthouse,  and  little  people 
patiently  looking  across  the  waves  for  Heaven  knows 
what  I  the  busy  liarl)or  full  of  life  and  animation  ;  under 
our  feet  the  red  roofs  of  the  old  town  and  the  little  clock 
tower  of  the  market-place  ;  across  the  stream  the  long 
quay  with  its  ale-houses  and  em[>oriums  and  jet  shops 
and  lively  trattic  ;  its  old  gal)led  dwellings  and  their 
rotting  wooden  balconies.  And  rising  out  of  all  this, 
tier  upon  tier,  up  the  opposite  clitf,  tlie  Whitby  of  tlu^ 
visitors,  dominated  by  a  gigantic;  wimlmill  that  is — or 
was — almost  as  important  a  landmark  as  the  old  abbey 
itself. 

To  the  south  the  shining  river  ebbs  and  flows,  betw  en 
its  big  ship-building  yards  and  the  railway  to  York,  under 
endless  moving  (,'raft  ami  a  forest  of  masts,  now  straight 
on  end,  now  slanting  helplessly  on  one  side  when  there's 


not  water  enougli  to  float  their  keels  ;  and  the  long  row 
of  Cornish  fishing-smacks,  two  or  three  deep. 

How  the  blue  smoke  of  their  cooking  wreathes  up- 
ward in  savory  whiffs  and  whirls  I  They  are  good  cooks, 
these  rovers  from  Penzance,  and  do  themselves  well,  and 
remind  us  that  it  is  time  to  go  and  get  lunch  at  the  hotel. 

We  do,  and  do  ourselves  uncommonly  well  also  ;  and 
afterwards  we  take  a  boat,  we  four  (if  the  tide  serves), 
and  row  up  for  a  mile  or  so  to  a  certain  dam  at  Kuswarp, 
and  there  we  take  another  boat  on  a  lovely  little  secluded 
river,  which  is  quite  indejiendent  of  tides,  and  where  for 
a  mile  or  more  the  trees  bend  over  us  from  either  side  as 
we  leisurely  paddle  along  and  watch  the  leaping  salmon- 
trout,  pulling  now  and  then  under  a  drooi)i ng  ash  or 
weeping-willow  to  gaze  and  dream  or  chat,  or  read  out 
loud  from  Sylvia's  Lovers  ;  Sylvia  Robson  once  lived  in 
a  little  farm-house  near  Upgang,  which  we  know  well, 
and  at  Whitby  every  one  reads  about  Sylvia  Kobson  ;  or 
else  we  tell  stories,  or  inform  each  other  what  a  jolly 
time  we're  having,  and  tease  old  Chucker-out,  who  gets 
quite  excited,  and  we  admire  the  discretion  with  which 
he  disposes  of  his  huge  body  as  ballast  to  trim  the  boat, 
and  remains  perfectly  still  in  spite  of  his  excitement  for 
fear  he  should  upset  us.  Indeed,  he  has  been  learning 
all  his  life  how  to  behave  in  boats,  and  how  to  get  in  and 
out  of  them. 

And  so  on  till  tea-time  at  five,  and  we  remember 
there's  a  little  inn  at  Sleights,  where  the  scones  are  good  ; 
or,  better  still,  a  leafy  garden  full  of  raspberry-bushes  at 
Cock  Mill,  where  they  give  excellent  jam  with  your  tea, 
and  from  which  there  are  three  ways  of  walking  back  to 
Whitby  when  there's  not  enough  water  to  row — and 
which  is  the  most  delightful  of  those  three  ways  has 
never  been  decided  yet. 


445 


long  row 

athes  np- 
od  cooks, 

well,  and 
the  hotel, 
ilso  ;  and 
e  serves), 
Kiiswarp, 

secluded 
where  for 
er  side  as 
^  salmon- 
g  ash  or 

read  out 
i  lived  in 
low  well, 
bson  ;  or 
t  a  jolly 
who  gets 
th  which 
the  boat, 
ment  for 

learning 
3t  in  and 

imember 
re  good ; 
>uslies  at 
i^our  tea, 
back  to 
3W — and 
^ays  has 


Then  from  the  stone  pier  we  watch  a  hundred  brown- 
sailed  Cornish  fishing-smacks  follow  each  other  in  singrle 
file  across  the  harbor  bar  and  go  sailing  out  into  the 
west  as  the  sun  goes  down — a  most  beautiful  sight,  of 
which  Marty  feels  all  the  mystery  and  the  charm  and 
the  pathos,  and    Chips   all   the  jollity  and  danger  and 


romance. 


Then  to  the  trap,  and  home  all  four  of  us  an  (jrnnd 
trot,  between  the  hedge-rows  and  tii rough  the  splendid 
woods  of  Castle  Rohan  ;  there  at  last  we  find  all  the 
warmth  and  light  and  music  and  fun  of  Marsfield,  and 
many  good  things  besides  :  supper,  dinner,  tea — all  in 
one ;  and  happy,  healthy,  hungry,  indefatigable  boys  and 
girls  who've  been  trapesing  over  miles  and  miles  of  moor 
and  fell,  to  beautiful  mills  and  dells  and  waterfalls — too 
many  miles  for  slender  Marty  or  little  Chips  ;  or  even 
Hob  and  Chucker-rut  —  wlio  weigh  thirty  -  two  stone  be- 
tween them,  and  are  getting  lazy  in  their  old  age,  and  fat 
and  scant  of  breath. 

Whitby  is  an  ideal  place  for  young  people;  it  almost 
makes  old  people  feel  young  themselves  there  when  the 
young  are  about  ;  there  is  so  much  to  do. 

I,  being  the  eldest  of  the  large  party,  chummed  most 
of  the  time  with  the  two  youngest  and  became  a  boy 
again  ;  so  much  so  that  I  felt  myself  almost  a  sneak 
when  I  tactfully  tried  to  restrain  such  exuberance  of 
spirits  on  their  part  as  might  have  led  them  into  mis- 
chief :  indeed  it  was  difficult  not  to  lead  them  into  mis- 
chief myself  ;  all  the  old  inventiveness  (that  had  got  me 
and  others  into  so  many  scrapes  at  Hrossard's)  seemed  to 
come  back,  enhanced  by  experience  and  maturity. 

At  all  events,  Marty  and  Chips  were  happier  with  me 
than  without — of  that  I  feel  quite  sure,  for  I  tested  it  in 
many  ways. 


446 


I  always  took  iin mouse  pains  to  devise  the  kinds  of  ex- 
cursion tliat  would  please  them  best,  and  these  never 
seemed  to  fail  of  their  object ;  and  I  was  provident  and 
well  skilled  in  all  details  of  the  commissariat  (Chips  was 
healthily  idimentative)  ;  I  was  a  very  BradsJmw  at  trains 
and  times  and  distances,  and  also,  if  I  am  not  brairging  too 
much,  and  makiuQ-  mvself  out  an  Admirable  (Jrichton, 
extremely  weatherwise,  and  good  at  carrying  smal;  peo- 
ple pickaback  when  they  got  tired. 

Marty  was  well  up  in  local  folk-lore,  jnid  had  mastered 
the  history  of  Whitby  and  St.  Hilda,  and  Sylvia  Jtobson  ; 
and  of  the  old  obsolete  whaling-trade,  in  which  she  took 
a  passionate  int'  vest ;  and  lixed  poor  little  Cliips's  mind 
with  a  pap^ion  lor  the  Polar  regions  (he  is  now  on  the 
coast  of  Senegamhia). 

We  were  much  on  the  open  sea  ourselves,  in  cobles ; 
sometimes  the  big  dog  with  us — "  Joomboa,"as  the  fish- 
ermen called  him  ;  and  they  rnarvelled  at  his  good  man- 
ners a'l.d  stately  immobility  in  a  boat. 

One  afternoon — a  perfect  afternoon — we  took  tea  at 
Ilunswick,  from  which  charming  little  village  the  Whitbys 
take  their  second  title,  and  had  ouiselvos  rowed  round 
the  cliffs  to  Staithes,  which  we  reached  just  before  sun- 
set ;  Chips  and  his  sister  also  taking  an  oar  between  them, 
and  I  another.  There,  on  the  brink  of  the  little  bay,  with 
the  singularl\  quaint  and  picturesque  old  village  behind 
it,  were  fifty  fishing -boats  side  by  side  waiting  to  be 
launched,  and  all  the  fishing  population  of  Staithes  were 
bhere  to  launch  them — men,  women  and  children  ;  as  we 
landed  Ave  were  immediately  pressed  into  the  service. 

Marty  and  Chips,  wild  with  enthusiasm,  pushed  and 
yo-ho'd  with  the  best  ;  and  I  also  won  some  commenda- 
tion by  my  hearty  elfuius  in  the  conim<'!i  cause.  Soon 
the  coa£t  was  clear  of  all  but  old  men  and  boys,  women 


447 


<ls  of  ex- 
ae  never 
lent  and 
iliips  was 
at  trains 
C,i,nng  too 
'richton, 
iial:  peo- 

nastered 
J{()bson  ; 
she  took 
s's  mind 
v^  on  tlie 

cobles  ; 
tlie  flsli- 
)d  man- 
tea  at 
IVhitbys 
1  round 
)re  siin- 
n  them, 
ly,  with 
behind 
X  to  be 
es  were 
;  as  we 
ice. 

ed  and 
neii  da- 
Soon 
women 


and  children,  and  our  four  selves  ;  and  the  boats  all  sailed 
westward,  in  a  cluster,  and  lost  thomst-Ives  in  the  i^olden 
haze.  I  was  the  prettiest  sight  1  (!ver  saw,  and  we  were 
all  fpiile  romantic  about  it. 

Chucker-out  held  a  small  court  on  the  sands,  and  v/as 
worshipped  and  fed  with  stale  fish  by  a  crowd  of  good- 
looking  and  agreeable  little  lasses  and  lads  who  called 
him  "  Joondtoa,"  and  pressed  Chips  and  Marty  t'<»r  bio- 
graphical details  about  him,  and  were  not  disai)p<'inted. 
And  [  smoked  a  pipe  of  pii)es  with  some  splendid  old  salts, 
and  sinirod  my  ironeydew  among  them. 

Nous  etions  bien,  la  ! 

►bo  s])ed  those  happy  weeks — with  something  new  and 
exciting  every  day — even  on  rainy  days,  when  we  wore 
waterproofs  and  big  india-rubner  boots  and  sou'westers, 
and  Ciuicker-out's  coat  got  so  heavy  with  the  soak  that 
he  could  hardly  drag  liimseU'  along  :  and  we  settle<l.  we 
three  at  least,  that  we  would  never  go  to  France  or  Scot- 
land— never  any  more — never  anywhere  in  the  world  but 
Whitby,  jolly  Whitby— 

Ah  me  I  riiomme  propose.  .  .  . 

Marty  always  wore  a  red  woollen  fisherman's  cap  that 
hung  down  behind  over  the  waving  masses  of  her  long, 
thick  yellow  hair — a  blue  jersey  of  the  elaborate  kind 
women  Uiui  on  the  Whitby  quay — a  short,  striped  petti- 
coat like  a  Boulogne  fishwife's,  and  light  brown  stock- 
ings on  her  long,  thin  legs. 

I  have  a  photograph  of  her  like  that,  holding  a  shrimp- 
ing-net;  with  a  magnifying -glass,  I  can  see  the  little 
high-light  in  the  middle  of  each  jet-black  eye — aiul  every 
detail  and  charm  and  perfection  of  her  childish  face.  Of 
all  the  art-treasures  I've  amassed  in  my  long  life,  that  is 
to  me  the  most  beautiful,  far  and  awav — but  I  can't  look 
at  it  yet  for  more  than  a  second  at  a  time  .  .  . 


448 


"O  tempo  passMto,  pcrcli6  non  ritorni  ?" 

As  Mary  is  so  fond  of  singing  to  me  sometimes,  when 
she  thinks  I've  got  the  blues.  As  if  1  haven't  always  got 
the  blues  I 

All  Party's  teaching  is  thrown  away  on  me,  now  that 
he's  not  here  himself  to  point  his  moral — 

"Et  je  ni'en  vais 
Au  vent,  insiuvaia 

(^ui  ni'eraporte 
Do^ti,  (Ida, 
Pareil  h  la 

Feuille  morto  ..." 


Heaven  bless  thee,  Mary  dear,  rossignolet  de  mon  ame  ! 
AVould  thou  wert  ever  by  my  side  I  fain  would  I  keep  thee 
for  myself  in  a  golden  cage,  and  feed  thee  on  the  tongues 
of  other  nightingales,  so  thou  mightst  warble  every  day, 
and  all  day  long.  By  some  strange  congenital  mystery 
the  native  tuning  of  thy  voice  is  such,  for  me,  that  all 
the  pleasure  of  my  past  years  seems  to  go  forever  ringing 
in  every  single  note.  Thy  dear  mother  speaks  again, 
thy  gay  young  father  rollicks  and  jokes  and  sings,  and 
little  Marty  laughs  her  happy  laugh. 

Da  capo,  c  da  ca2)o,  Mar}- — only  at  night  shouldst  thou 
cease  from  thy  sweet  pipings,  that  I  might  smoke  myself 
to  sleep,  and  dream  that  all  is  once  more  as  it  used  to  be. 


The  Avriting,  such  as  it  is,  of  this  life  of  Barty  Josse- 
lin — which  always  means  the  writing  of  so  much  of  my 
own — has  been  to  me,  up  to  the  present  moment,  a  great 
source  of  consolation,  almost  of  delight,  when  the  pen 
was  in  my  hand  and  I  dived  into  the  past. 

But  now  the  story  becomes  such  a  record  of  my  own 


449 


nes,  wlieii 
ihvays  got 

now  that 


non  ame ! 
keep  thee 
3  tongues 
very  day, 
mystery 
,  that  all 
r  ringing 
ts  again, 
ngs,  and 

dst  tliou 
e  myself 
ed  to  be. 

fcy  Josse- 
h  of  my 
,  a  great 
the  pen 

my  own 


personal  grief  that  I  liuvo  scarcely  the  courage  to  go  on  ; 
[  will  get  through  it  as  quickly  as  I  can. 

It  was  at  the  beginning  of  the  present  decade  that  the 
bitter  thing  arose— medio  de  fonto  leporum ;  just  as  all 
seemed  so  happy  and  secure  at  Marsfield. 

One  afternoon  in  May  I  arrived  at  the  house,  and  no- 
body was  at  home;  but  I  was  told  that  Marty  was  in  the 
wood  with  old  Chucker-out.  and  I  went  thither  to  find 
her,  loudly  whistling  a  bar  which  served  as  a  rallying  sig- 
nal to  the  family.     It  was  not  answered,  but  after  a  long 
hunt  I  found  .AEarty  lying  on  the  ground  at  the  foot  of  a 
tree,  and  Chucker-out  licking  her  face  and  hands. 
She  had  been  crying,  and  seemed  half-unconscious. 
When  I  spoke  to  her  she  opened  her  eyes  and  said : 
''Oh,  Uncle  Bob,  I  have  hurt  myself  so!     I  fell  down 
that  tree.     Do  you  think  you  could  carry  me  homo  ?" 

Beside  myself  with  terror  and  anxiety,  I  took  her  up  as 
gently  as  I  could,  and  made  my  way  to  the  house.  She 
had  hurt  the  base  of  her  spine  as  she  fell  on  the  roots  of 
the  tree ;  but  she  seemed  to  get  better  as  soon  as  Spar- 
row, the  nurse,  had  undressed  her  and  put  her  to  bed. 

I  sent  for  the  doctor,  however,  and  he  thought,  after 
seeing  her,  that  I  should  do  well  to  send  for  Dr.  Knin-ht. 
Just  then  Leah  and  Barty  came  in,  and  we  telegraphed 
for  Dr.  Knight,  who  came  at  once. 

Next    day  Dr.   Knight    thought    he  had   better   have 

Sir ,  and  there  was  a  consultation. 

;Marty  kept  her  bed  for  two  or  thi-eo  days,  and  then 
seeined  to  have  completelv  recovered  but  for  a  sli<dit  in- 
ternal  disturbance,  brought  on  by  the  concussion,  and 
which  did  not  improve. 

One  day  Dr.  Knight  told  me  he  feared  very  much  that 
this  would  end  in  a  kind  of  ataxia  of  the  lower  limbs — it 
might  be  sooner  or  later ;  indeed,  it  was  Sir 's 

29 


450 


opinion  that  it  would  l)e  sure  to  do  so  in  tlie  end — that 
s})inal  paralysis  would  set  in,  and  that  the  child  would 
become  a  cripple  for  life,  and  for  a  life  tluit  would  not  he 
long. 
I  had  to  tell  this  to  her  father  and  mother. 


t 


Marty,  however,  recovered  all  her  high  spirits.  It  was 
as  if  nothing  had  happened  or  could  ha})i)en,  and  during 
six  mouths  everything  at  ^[arsfield  went  on  as  usual  hut 
for  the  sickening  fear  that  we  three  numaged  to  conceal 
in  our  hearts,  even  from  each  other. 

At  length,  one  day  as  ^larty  and  I  were  ])laying  lawn- 
tennis,  she  suddenly  told  me  that  her  feet  felt  as  if  they 
were  made  of  lead,  and  I  knew  that  the  terrible  thing 
had  come.  .  .  . 

I  must  really  pass  over  the  next  few  months. 

In  the  summer  of  the  following  year  she  could  scarcely 
walk  without  assistance,  and  soon  she  had  to  go  about  in 
a  bath-ciuiir. 

Soon,  also,  she  ceased  to  be  conscious  when  her  lower 
limbs  were  pinched  and  pricked  till  an  interval  of  about 
a  second  had  elapsed,  and  this  interval  increased  every 
month.  She  Iiiid  no  natural  consciousness  of  her  leyfs 
and  feet  whatever  unless  slie  s;»w  them,  although  she 
could  move  them  still  and  even  get  in  and  out  of  bed, 
or  in  and  out  of  her  bath -chair,  without  much  assist- 
ance, 80  long  as  she  could  see  her  lower  limbs.  Often 
she  would  stumble  and  fall  down,  even  on  a  grassy 
lawn.  In  the  dark  she  could  not  control  her  movements 
at  all. 

She  was  also  in  constant  pain,  and  her  face  took  on 
pernumently  the  expression  that  Barly's  often  wore  when 
he  thought  he  was  going  blind  in  Malines,  jUtliough,  like 
him  iu  those  days,  she  was  always  lively  and  droll,  in  spite 


451 


of  tliis  Iieavy  misfortune,  wliicli  seemed  to  break  every 
heart  at  Marslield  except  lier  own. 

For,  alas  I  Barty  Josselin,  wlio  has  so  li<^htenetl  for  us 
the  sorrow  of  mere  bereavement,  and  nuide  quick-coming 
deatli  a  little  thing  —  for  some  of  us,  indeed,  a  lovely 
thing — has  not  taught  ui»how  to  bear  the  sufferings  of 
those  we  love,  the  woful  ache  of  pity  for  pangs  we  are 
powerless  to  relieve  and  can  only  try  to  share. 

Endeavor  as  I  will,  1  find  I  cannot  tell  this  part  of  my 
story  as  it  should  be  told ;  it  should  ])e  a  beautiful  story 
of  sweet  young  feminine  fortitude  and  heroic  resignation 
— an  angel's  story. 

During  the  four  years  that  Martia's  illness  lasted  the 
only  comfort  I  could  find  in  life  was  to  be  with  her — 
reading  to  her,  teaching  her  blaze,  rowing  her  on  the 
river,  driving  her,  pushing  or  dragging  her  bath-chair; 
but,  alas  !  watching  her  fade  day  by  day. 

Strangely  enough,  she  grew  to  be  the  tallest  of  all  her 
sisters,  and  tlio  most  beautiful  in  the  face  ;  yhe  was  so 
wasted  and  thin  she  could  hardly  be  said  to  have  had  a 
body  or  limbs  at  all. 

I  thiidc  the  greatest  pleasure  she  had  was  to  lie  and  be 
sung  to  by  Mary  or  her  father,  or  played  to  by  Roberta, 
or  ciiatted  to  about  domestic  matters  by  Leah,  or  read 
to  by  me.  She  took  the  keenest  interest  in  everything 
that  concerned  us  all;  she  lived  out  of  hersell!  entirely, 
and  from  day  to  day,  taking  short  views  of  life. 

It  filled  her  with  aninnition  to  see  the  people  who  came 
to  the  house  and  talk  with  them;  and  atuong  these  she 
nuide  many  passionately  devoted  friends. 

There  were  also  poor  chihlren  from  tiie  families  of 
laborers  in  the  neighborhood,  in  whom  she  had  always 
taken  a  warm  interest.  She  now  organized  them  into 
regular  (;lasses,  and  taught  and  amused  them  and  told 


452 


h 


them  stories,  sung  fiinny  soiis^.s  to  tlioni,  and  clothed  and 
fed  thorn  with  nice  tilings,  and  tliey  grew  to  iier  an  im- 
mense ]iohl)y  and  constant  occupation. 

She  also  became  a  <{uite  surprising  performer  on  the 
l)anjc,  wliicli  lier  fatlier  liad  taught  her  wlien  slie  was 
quite  a  little  girl,  and  inveifted  charming  tunes  and 
eit'ects  and  modulations  that  had  never  been  tried  on 
that  humble  instrument  before.  She  ''ould  have  made 
a  liandsome  living  out  of  it,  cri[)])led  as  she  was. 

She  seemed  the  busiest,  drollest,  and  most  contented 
person  in  Marsfield ;  she  all  but  cousoled  ns  for  the 
dreadful  thing  that  had  bappened  to  herself,  and  laugli- 
ingly  pitied  us  for  pitying  her. 

So  !nuch  for  the  teaching  (d*  liarty  Josselin.  whose 
books  she  knew  by  heart,  and  (H)nst;intly  read  and  re- 
read. 

And  thus,  in  spite  of  all.  t'u'  old.  bajjjjy,  resonant  cheer- 
fulness gradually  found  its  way  back  to  Marsfield,  as 
though  nothing  had  happened  ;  and  poor  Itroken  Marty, 
who  had  always  been  our  idol,  became  our  goddess,  our 
pro})  and  mainstay,  the  angel  in  the  house,  tbe  person  for 
everyone  to  tell  their  troubles  to — little  or  big — their 
jokes,  their  good  stories;  there  was  never  a  laugb  like 
hers,  so  idiarged  with  keen  appreciation  of  the  humorous 
thing,  the  ri'lish  of  which  would  come  back  to  her  again 
ami  again  at  anv  time — even  in  the  middle  of  the  night 
when  she  could  not  always  sleep  for  her  pain  ;  and  she 
would  laugh  anew. 

Ida,  Scatcherd  and  I.  with  good  Xurse  Sparrow  to  help, 
wished  to  take  her  to  Italy-  to  Kgy[)t — but  sbe  would 
not  leave  Marsiield,  unless  it  were  to  spend  the  winter 
nnnitlis  witli  all  of  us  at  iiancaster  (late,  or  tbe  autumn 
in  th(^  iligblaiids  or  on  the  coast  of  Xormandy. 

And  indeed  neither  liarty  nor  Leah  nor  tli'     est  could 


1)0(1  iind 
'  an  iiii- 

'  on  the 
she  WMS 
lies  and 
.ried  on 
^e  nijule 

ntented 
for  tlie 
1  hiugli- 

.  whose 
and  re- 

t  cheer- 
ield.  as 
Marty, 
ss.  onr 
son  f(jr 
—  their 
^•h  like 
11  (irons 
r  ai-'aiii 
ni;j;lit 
nd  she 

>  help, 

would 

winter 

iilunin 


CO 


uld 


S 


454 


have  got  on  without  her ;  they  woiihl  have  had  to  come, 
too  —  brothers,  sisters,  young  husbands,  grandchildren, 
and  all. 

Never  but  once  did  she  give  way.  It  was  one  June 
evening,  when  I  was  reading  to  her  some  favorite  short 
poems  out  of  Browning's  Men  and  Women  on  a  small 
lawn  surrounded  with  roses,  uud  of  which  she  was 
fond. 

The  rest  of  the  family  were  on  the  river,  except  her 
father  and  mother,  who  were  dressing  to  go  and  dine  with 
some  neighbors ;  for  a  wonder,  as  they  seldom  dined  away 
from  home. 

The  carriage  drove  up  to  the  door  to  fetch  them,  and 
they  came  out  on  the  lawn  to  wish  us  good-night. 

Never  had  I  been  more  struck  with  the  splendor  of 
Barty  and  his  wife,  now  verging  towards  middle  age,  as 
they  bent  over  to  kiss  their  daughter,  and  he  cut  capers 
and  cracked  little  jokes  to  make  her  laugh. 

Leah's  hair  was  slightly  gray  and  her  magnificent 
figure  somewhat  matronly,  but  there  were  no  other  signs 
of  autumn  ;  her  beautiful  white  skin  was  still  as  delicate 
as  a  baby's,  her  jet-black  eyes  as  bright  and  full,  her 
teeth  just  as  they  were  thirty  years  back. 

Tall  as  she  was,  her  husband  towered  over  her,  the 
finest  and  handsomest  man  of  his  age  1  have  ever  seen. 
And  Marty  gazed  after  them  with  her  heart  in  her  eyes 
as  they  drove  off. 

**  How  splendid  they  are.  Uncle  Bob  !" 

Then  she  looked  down  at  her  own  shrunken  figure  and 
limbs — her  long,  wasted  legs  and  her  thin,  slight  feet 
that  were  yet  so  beautifully  shaped. 

And,  hiding  her  face  in  her  luuhlb,  hIh;  'icgan  to  cry: 

**And  I'm  their  poor  littL'  iKi  iglitei-  —  oi.  dear,  oh 
dear  I" 


455 


o  come, 
liildren, 

le  June 
ie  short 
a  small 
lie   was 

ept  her 
lie  with 
3cl  away 

sm,  and 

idor  of 
age,  as 
capers 

lificent 
r  signs 
elicate 

ill,  her 

er,  the 
seen. 
)r  eyes 


re  and 

t  feet 

cry: 
ar,  oh 


Slie  wept  silently  for  a  while,  and  I  said  nothing,  but 
endured  an  agony  such  as  I  cannot  describe. 

Tiicn  she  dried  her  eyes  and  smiled,  and  said  : 

"  What  a  goose  I  am,"  and,  looking  at  me — 

"Oil!  Uncle  Bob,  forgive  me;  I've  made  you  very 
unhappy — it  shall  never  ha])pcn  again  !" 

Suddenly  the  spirit  moved  me  to  tell  her  the  story  of 
]\[artia. 

Leah  and  Barty  and  I  had  often  discussed  whether  she 
should  be  told  tliis  extraordinary  tiling,  in  which  we 
never  knew  whetiier  to  believe  or  not,  and  which,  if 
there  ^vere  a  possibility  of  its  being  true,  concerned 
]\[arty  so  directly. 

They  settled  that  they  would  leave  it  entirely  to  me — 
to  tell  her  or  iu3t,  as  my  own  instinct  would  prompt  me, 
should  the  opportunity  occur. 

My  instinct  prompted  me  to  do  so  now.  I  shall  not 
forget  that  evening. 

The  full  moon  rose  before  the  sun  had  quite  set,  and  I 
talked  on  and  on.  Tlie  otiiers  came  in  to  dinner.  She 
and  I  had  some  dinner  brought  to  us  out  there,  an<l  on  I 
talked  —  and  she  could  scarcely  eat  for  listening.  1 
wrapped  her  well  up,  and  lit  pipe  after  pipe,  and  went 
on  talking,  and  a  nightingale  sang,  but  (piite  uniiua'd  by 
Marty  Josselin. 

She  did  not  even  hear  her  sistc*  Mary,  whose  voice 
went  lightly  up  to  heaven  through  the  open  window  : 

"Oh  tbiil  we  two  were  iniiyliii>!" 

And  when  we  parted  that  night  she  thanked  and 
kissed  me  so  ell'usively  I  felt  that  I  had  l)een  liapi)ily  in- 
s})ire(l. 

*'  I  believe  every  wov<!  of  it's  true  ;  I  know  it,  1  feel  itl 
Uncle  Bol),  you  have     liiingod  my  life  ;  I  luive  often  de- 


456 


sponded  wlioii  nobody  knew — but  never  again  I  Dear 
papa !  Only  tliink  of  bini  I  As  if  any  buman  being  alive 
coidd  Avrite  wbat  lie  lias  written  without  help  from  above 
or  outside.  Of  course  it's  all  true  ;  I  sometimes  think  1 
can  almost  remember  things.   .   .   .   I'm  sure  I  can.'* 

Barty  and  Leah  were  well  pleased  with  mo  when  they 
came  home  that  night. 

That  Marty  was  doomed  to  an  early  death  did  not  very 
deeply  distress  them.  It  is  astonishing  how  lightly  they 
thought  of  death,  these  people  for  whom  life  seemed  so 
full  of  joy  ;  but  that  she  should  ever  be  conscious  of  the 
anguish  of  her  lot  while  she  lived  was  to  them  intolerable 
— a  haunting  pre{)ccui)ation. 

To  me,  a  narrower  and  more  selfish  person,  Marty  had 
almost  become  to  me  life  itsell — her  calamity  had  made 
her  mine  forever;  and  life  without  her  had  become  a 
thing  not  to  bo  conceived  :  her  life  was  my  life. 

That  life  of  hers  was  to  lie  even  shorter  than  we 
thought,  and  I  love  to  think  that  what  remained  of  it 
was  made  so  smooth  and  sweet  by  what  I  told  her  that 
night 

I  read  all  ^[artia's  blaze  letters  to  her,  and  lielped  her 
to  read  them  for  herself,  and  so  did  Barty.  She  irot  to 
know  them  by  he;irt — especially  the  last;  she  grew  to 
talk  as  ^lartia  wrote;  she  told  me  of  strange  dreams  she 
iiad  often  had — dreams  she  had  told  Spiirrow  and  hm' 
own  brothers  and  sisters  when  siie  was  a  child — wondrotis 
di'eams,  in  their  seeming  contirmation  of  what  seenwHi  -o 
us  so  impossible.      II or  i)iiins  grew  slighter  and  (M-a.-^d. 

And  now  her  whole  existence  had  bee  jmc  a  drejMj — a 
tranijuil,  ha))i)y  dream;  it  showed  itself  iu  her  face,  iis 
transligured,  unearthly  beauty — in  her  cheerful  talk,  her 
eager  sympathy;  a  kind  of  heavenly  pity  she  seemed  to 
feel  for  those  who  had  to  go  on  living  out  their  nonnal 


457 


length  of  days.  And  always  the  old  love  of  fun  and 
frolic  and  pretty  tunes. 

Her  father  would  make  her  laugli  till  she  cried,  and  the 
same  fount  of  tears  would  serve  when  Mary  sang  Bralims 
and  Schubert  and  Lassen  to  her—and  Roberta  played 
Chopin  and  Schumann  by  the  hour. 

So  she  might  have  lived  on  for  a  few  years— four  or 
five— even  ten.  But  she  died  at  seventeen,  of  nu^re  inllu- 
enza,  very  quickly  and  without  much  pain.  Her  father 
and  mother  were  by  her  bedside  when  her  si)irit  passed 
away,  and  Dr.  Knight,  who  had  brought  her  into  the 
world. 

She  woke  from  a  gentle  doze  and  raised  jier  head,  and 
called  out  in  a  clear  voice  : 

''Bart If — lA'ah — ri>,nc  to  uw,  rome!" 

And  fell  back  dead. 

Barty  bowed  his  head  aiul  face  on  lu>r  hand,  and  re- 
mained there  as  if  asleep.  It  was  Leah  who  drew  her 
eyelids  down. 

An  liour  later  Dr.  Knight  came  to  me,  his  face  dis- 
torted with  grief. 

*'■  It's  all  oVer  ?"  I  said. 
''Yes,  it's  all  over.'' 


•j" 


"And  Leah? 
**  Mrs.  Josselin   is  witli   her  liusband.     SI 
woman  ;  she  seems  to  bear  it  well, 
'*xin.l  Biirry  ?" 
*'  Barty  .Josselin  is  no  nu>re." 


le's  a  noble 


THE    END 


GLOSSARV 


GLOSSARY 

[First  flgiire  imlicates  Page;  second  figure,  Lino.] 


3 


3,  26.  odium  theologicum  —  thc<)lof]jical 
hatred. 

11.  s(Pi)(i  in<H(jnatin — fierce  iiidifjna- 
tioii. 
r   1.  "  iJe  Pfirit  a  VerMiilles"  etc — 
"From  I'ari.s  to  Versailles.  Ion,  la, 
From  Paris  to  Versailles — 
There  are  many  tine  walks. 

Hurrah  for  the  King  of  France  ! 
Tiiere  are  many  fine  walks, 
Hurrah  for  the  schoolboys  !" 

5,  2.  Sdlle  d'efudes  des  jwt'ds — stu(l\'- 
room  of  the  smaller  boys. 

fi,  11.  purloir — parlor. 

6,  14.  e  da  capo — and  over  again. 

(1,  1(3.  le  Grand  Bonzig — the  Mig  I3on- 
zig. 

(i,  17.  estrade — platform. 

X,  '2,  a  la  malcontent —convict  style. 

8,5.  ceintnre  de  (jymnastiquc — a  wide 
gymnasium  belt. 

8, 16.  marchand  de  coco  —  licorice- 
water  seller. 

8,  17.   Orpheonistes — members  of  musi 
cal  societies. 

8,  32.  exceptis  excipiendis — exceptions 
being  made. 

9,10.  '*  Infartdinn,  irr/ina,  jithcs  reno- 
rare'"  Q^doloreni^'),  etc. 

"Thou  orderest  me,  i)  queen,  to  re- 
new the  unutteraljle  grief." 

9,  17.  "  Mouclie  toi  done,  animal!  tu 
nic  d<\ffout('.'<,  a  la  Jin!'' — '•  Mlow  your 
nose,  you  beast,  you  di.sgiist  me  !" 

9,  20.  '•  Taispz-vous,  Maurice  —  on  jc 
roHs  doniw  cent  vers  a  copier .'" — 
"  Hold  your  tongne,lMaurice,or  I  w  ill 
give  you  a  hundred  lines  to  copv  !" 

10,  20.  "  Oui,  m\iteurr—''  Yes,  sir!" 


10.  -2.0. 


.If 


"/,  rn^sieur  ?' 


r.  sir?" 


10,  -J*).  ''Oni,  rous!"—''  Yes,  vou  !" 

10,  27.  "i?«ert,  7n'sienrr~"Vcrv  well, 
sir !" 

10,  31.  "  Le  Roi  qui  passe  !"—''  There 
goes  the  King !" 

12,3.  ^'■Fcrmez  les  fenetres,  on  je  rous 
niets  tons  an  pain  sec  pour  nn  mois  /" 
— "  Shut  the  windows,  or  I  will  put 
you  all  on  dry  bread  for  a  month  !" 

13,1.  ^^  Sojjez  dilif/<  nt  et  at  tent  i/'.  nion 
ami,-  a  plus  tard.'" — '-He  diligent 
and  attentive,  my  friend ;  I  will  see 
you  later!" 

13.0.  fM  cinqui'eme — in  the  fifth  class. 

13,  11.  le  nouveau—t\\G  new  boy. 

14,  8.  "  Ferniez  votre pupitre " — "Shut 
your  desk." 

14,  34.  jnci-isse — effeminate  man. 

15,  1.  jniltoqnel — clown. 

petit  polisson — little  scamp. 

15,  32.  limjere — seamstress. 

IH,  13.  qnatrieme — fourth  clas.s. 

16.21.  ''Notre  I'ere,  ..  .les  repHs  les 
plus  profonds  de  nos  cfjpurs" — "'Our 
Father,  who  art  in  heaven,  Thou 
whose  .searching  glance  penetrates 
even  to  the  inmost  reces.ses  of  our 
hearts." 

16,  24.  "  an  nam  dn  P'ere,  dn  Fils,  et 
du  .S7.  h'sprit^  ainsi  soitil!'" — '"in 
the  name  of  the.  Father,  the  Son, 
and  the  Holy  (ihost,  so  be  it!" 

18,  21.  concieri/e — janitor. 

rriiquets — oris])  almond  cakes, 

18.22.  bloni-houdiuijues — plimi  pud- 
ilings. 

/jfaVwf/'^/jeVca— gingerbreads. 
sucre-d'orge — barley  sugar. 


IMAGE  EVALUATION 
TEST  TARGET  (MT-S) 


1.0     ^^  K^ 

lu  Ui2   |2.2 

1.1     l.-^KS 

=        M 
1^  111=  1^ 


V 


Photographic 

Sciences 

Corporation 


V 


^ 


<^ 


< 


> 


^''^- 
^.^ 


O 


i 


;\ 


«>. 


33  WIST  MAIN  STRUT 

WHSTIR.N.Y.  MSSO 

(716)l7a-4S03 


6^ 


^ 


463 


I. 


1ft,  23.  nnuf/tit — almond  cake. 

pate  de  ifuiinmioe — marshmal- 

low  paste. 
praUiu's — hiiriit  almonds, 
dr<i()ft!i — snj^^ur  plums. 
IS, 'JO.  Ic  piiri'  ct  lit  mere — father  and 

mother. 
1!>.  2.  ci»-])i^  <l)  lof/tK — main  buildings, 
lit,  13.  1(1    tiihli'    lies  iptimh — the    bipf 
hoys'  table. 
/(/  t(tb/e  lien  pedis — the    little 
boys'  table. 
10.  27.  hroiiet  iioir  ilen  Ijic'ilemoniens — 

I  he  bhiek  broth  of  t  lie  Spartans. 
2'l,  lf>.  A  la  reteuiie — To  be  kept  in. 

20.  •>!>.  hiirres  Irai'erniereK — crossbars. 
2i>,  30.  la  niie — leap-froj^. 

21,  It.  reiiliem — stockliolders. 

21,  20.  (ViisKe  iri/itiloue  ile  France  oh 
'Wiyen  dt/c — ('lass  of  the  History  of 
France  durin(<c  tlie  Middle  Ages. 

21,27.  t rente  Kept ie. Ill f,  letfere  —  thirty- 
seventh  light  infantry. 

22,  13.  nous  ai'iiiis  cfiani/i  lout  cela! — 
we  have  changed  all  that! 

22,  16  representant  da  peiiple — repre- 
sentative of  the  people. 

22,  lU.  /&«  nobles — the  nobles. 

22,  27.  par  parenthese  —  by  way  of 
parenthesis. 

22,  30.  liiif/erie — place  where  linen  is 
kept. 

24,  30.  Jierthe.  anx  grands  pieils — 
liertlia  of  llie  big  feet.  (She  was 
the  mother  of  Charlemagne,  and  is 
mentioned  in  the  poem  that  I)n 
Maurier  elsewhere  calls  "that  never 
to  be  translated,  never  to  be  imitated 
lament,  the  immortal  '  Maliade  des 
DatiU'S  du  Temps  Jadis'"  of  Fran - 
(j'ois  Villon  ) 

25,  23.  AUee  In  /inis  or  /ioidot/ut; — 
liane  of  the  Bois  de  Boulogne. 

25,  28.  ;)prwtoHft.7/—  boarding  school. 
2<S,  4.  la  belle  Madaiin'  de  Jionnric  — 

the  beautiful  Lady  Hunswick. 
28,  !!3.  deurieinv  iVyw/Aw— second  Spahi 

regiment. 
30,  4.  Mare  aux   Jiic/ie^  —  The  Roes 

Pool. 
80,  14.  la  main  si  malheuretise  —  auch 

an  uufurtuiiate  huud. 


31.   2.     f.n    Dieppoise.  —  a    dance    of 

Dieppe. 
31,  5.  "  lienrons,  dune"  etc. 
"Let's  drink,  drink,  drink  then 

Of  this,    the   best    wine   in    the 
world.  . . 
Let's  drink,  drink,  drink  then 

Of  this,  the  very  best  wine! 
For  if  1  didn't  drink  it, 
[  might  get  the  pip! 
Which  wouhl  make  me.  .  .  ." 
31,13.    *•.]/*,   viDU  I  lieu!  quel   amour 
d'eii/aiil!     Oil!  i/ii ido lis- le !"—" Ah, 
my  Lord!  what  a  love  of  a  child! 
oil!  let  us  keep  him!" 
32,5.   arte -is  paribus  —  other   things 
being  equal. 

34,  111.  h  propos — seasonable. 

3.").  3.  e/iiiire — master's  raised  desk. 

35,  ti.  renieilkvient — contemplation. 
35.  II.   '^ Noil,  nisieitr,  je  n'dors  pas. 

./'  IravaUle."  —  "No,  sir,  I'm  not 
asleep.     I'm  working." 

3(5,  1.  a  la  porte — to  leave  the  room. 

30,  14.  On  deiiiande  Monsieur  Josselin 
au  parloir — Mr.  Josselin  is  wanted 
in  the  parlor. 

3(5,  24.  pensuin — a  task. 

3(5,  31.  maitre  de  niat/iiinaliipies  (el  de 
cosmoipaphie)  —  teacher  of  mathe- 
matics (and  cosmography). 

37,  17.  Mes  compliiiienis — My  compli- 
ments. 

38,  5.  "  Qihlquefois  je  sais  .  .  .  ,  il  n'y 
a  pas  a  s'l/  t romper  P' — "  Sotnetimea 
I  know  —  sometimes  I  don't  —  but 
when  I  know,  I  know,  and  there  is 
no  mistake  about  it  !" 

38,  IH.  .1  l\tmimdier\"—''  \i  the  al- 
mond tree!" 

38,  21.  la  bulle  au  camp  —  French 
baseball. 

39,  (I.  (J Mm  simple,  que  bunjour  —  as 
easy  as  saying  good  day. 

40,  17.  "' ("i'lait  pour  ^Monsieur  Josse- 
lin !"—''  It  was  for  Mr.  .losselin  !" 

41,11.  quorum  pars  viaijna  Jut  —  of 
which  I  was  a  great  part. 

41,  1(5.  bouiyi'ois  i/enlil/ioinme — citi/.eii 
gentleman.  ('I'lie  title  of  one  of  Mo- 
liere's  comedies  in  which  M.  Jour- 
daiii  is  the  principal  character.) 


1    dance    of 


;  then 

iiie   in    the 

k  then 
it  wine ! 


juel  amour 
/(./"_"  Ah, 
dF  a  child  ! 

Iicr  thing's 

le. 

led  desk. 

iplation. 

tutors  pas. 

r,  I'm    nut 

lie  room. 
nr  Josselin 
is  wanted 


ujues  {et  Je 
of  mat  he- 

). 

\\  compli- 

,  .  .  ,  il  iCy 
Sometimes 
oii't  —  l)nt 
id  there  is 

it  the  al- 

—  French 

ijour  —  as 

vnr  Josse- 
iselin  !" 
I  ftii  —  of 

'e — citizen 
uie  of  Mo- 
I  M.  Jour- 
icter.) 


463 


42. 29.  IHs  dime — Say  now. 

43,4.  "  .l/(»  ./(<»,  lion!   c'est  fxix   pmn- 

fa.'"— "My  word  no!    it  isn't  for 

that !" 
4.S,  5.  "  Poitrquoi,    alors  ?"  —  "  Wiiy, 

then?" 
4.'},  21.  Jolh'el  Irois — the  tliird  .lolivet. 

44,  2.  an  rabais — at  bar^^ain  sales. 

4 1,  ;{2.  "  Covimo  c'est  bile,  dt>  .i'baltre, 
/iciiif" — "  Mow  stupid  it  is  to  (if^ht, 
ehV" 

4i>.  9.  finim  et  menin — thine  and  mine. 

4fy,  19.   mtujiiifique — maffnilicent. 

45,  ;12.  Iai  quatrieme  DiiHeuaum — The 
fourth  Dimension. 

4(>,  H.   Etoiles  wo/'Ms— Dead  Stars. 

4(>,  15.   Lt's     'J're/xts.iei'S    de     h'ratK^oh 
Villon — The  Dead  of  Kran(;ois  Vil 
Ion. 

4fi,  29.  Ji^colc  dtit  l\)iitg  et  Ctumsi^ies— 
School  of  IJridgos  and  Roads. 

47,8.  en  carliette — in  hiding. 

Quelle  sarree   pone  !  —  What    a 
damnet   l)lull'! 

47,  12.   "  l>is    doN<;  Afttnrire! — pre/e 
inoi    ton    Iranlioe!'' — "Say    now, 
Maurice! — lend  me  your  /van/ioe!" 

47,  20.  "  Uapiind,  comnienf  dit-on  ^ pou- 
roir  '  en  anqlalt  f — "  Kapaud,  how 
do  thev  sav  *  i-i  be  able'  in  Eng- 
lish?"' 

47,21.  "AVw  />(».v,  wt'.stVMr.'"—"  Don't 
know,  sir!" 

47,  22.  "  Comment,  petit  c.relin,  tn  ne 
sais  pas!" — "  Wliat,  little  idiot,  you 
don't  know  !" 

"I   don't 

'•  And 


f" 


47,  2<!.  "./e  w'  sai<  pas 

know !" 
47,  27.    "  l-:t    toi,    Maurice?" 

you,  Maurice  ?" 
47,  2H.  "  ('a  se  dit  '  to  be  (d)le,'  m'xienr .'" 

— ''Thev  woidil  sav    'to   be   aide,' 

sir!" 
47,  29.  ".JA(/t.s   HOH,   nion  ami  .  ,  ,  \je 

i'(Utdrais  poni'oir'/" — "  Wliy   no. 

my  friend— you  forgit  your  native 

language— tiiey  would  say  '  to  can' ! 

Now,  how  woidd  you  s-ay,  '  I  would 

like  to  be  able  '  in  I^iiglish  'i*" 
47. 512.  ./•'  dirais — I  would  say. 
47.38.  ^^  Comnu'ut,  encore!    petit  cttn- 

cre!  allont—tu  et  Anj/luis—tu  sais 


bicn  quetn  dirais  .'"— "  What,  again ! 

little  dunce— come,  ynu  are  Knglish 

— yi)U    know    very    well    that    you 

would  say,  .  .   " 
48,1.  A  ton  ton r — Your  turn. 
48,4.  '"  Oni,     toi — comment     dirais-tu, 

'je  ponrrais  rouloir  '  ?" — "  Yes,  you 

— how    woidd  von  sjiv  •  I  would  be 

aide  to  will '  V"" 
48,  7.  'M  la  bonne  henre!   an  vmins  In 

sais    ta   lantine,  toi!" — "Well    and 

good!    you    at    least    know     yniir 

language!" 
48,  17.  lie  des  Ci/'/nes  -lnW.  of  Swans. 
48,  18.  Kc(de  de  Xiitation — .Swiinining- 

s(diool. 

48,  2t).  Jardin  </<.<  I'lantes — The  I'aris 
Zoohigical  Gardens. 

•19,  1. 

'•  /^lissons  les  rei;rets  et  les  pleurs 
A   la  vieillesKe ; 
,/ennes,  il  faiit  cneillir  les  Jlenrs 
l)e  la  jennesse .'"—  IJaif. 
"  I..et  us  leave  regrets  and  tears 
To  age; 
Yomig,  we  must  gather  the  flowers 
or  youth." 
19,  13.  (/('(«^^^^•.^y— small  cup  of  ctdTee. 
19,  14,  dullest  cafe — <lrink  taken  after 
colVi'e. 

49,  19.  con :omnuileur — cr>nsimier. 

49,  21     /.e  petit  mousse  noir — The  little 
black  cal)in  boy. 

19,  24.  •'  .1  lions,   Josselin,  clinnle  nons 

f'/ .'" — "(Jome,  ilo.sselin,  sing    that 

to  us !" 

0(1,  7.  '' Ecoute-inoilnen,ma  Flenretfe"— 

"  Li.sten  well  to  me,   my    Fleii- 

rette." 
"  A  mis,  la  matinee   est  belle  " — 
"  Friends,  the  tnorning  is  line." 

50.  12. 

'•  Cmidnis  ta  barque  arec  prudenci ,"  tic. 
"Sictr  lliy  bark  willi  prudence, 
Fi-^licruian !    speak  low! 
'I'bnnv  tliy  nets  in  silence, 
Fi.-ili('rrn;'<i !    speak  low  ! 
And   lliMugh   our  toils  the  king 
Of  the  seas  can  never  go." 
52,  21.  /ioulecard    lionnc    Xout'elle — 

Uoiilevard  of  (iood  News. 
52,  24.  (jaUtte  du  (/t/mnase—tl&t  cake, 


464 


m\i\  in  IxMtths  noar  the  Tliontro  dii 
<Jyniiinsc. 
52, 26.   !,  is/iuKik—a  double   veil  w(»rn 
Ijy  Turkish  women. 

52,  31.  queue — in  a  line. 

53,  5.  chlffoiuiieiK — raji  pickers. 

53,  33.  Accfleree.i  (in  correspnniiftiire 
avec  Ivs  Coiinlnuliiies)  —  I'',x|iress 
omnihuseH  (connecting with  the  Con- 
stantinc  line). 

54,  3.  coiHuie  on  ne  Pest  plus — as  one  is 
no  Ioniser 

51,  (5.  iHstrihutinn  de  prix — prize  dis- 
tribution. 
54,  15).  "/iM  clair  de  In  luuer—"}iy 
the  light  of  the  tnoon  !"  ( .\  French 
nursery  rhyme.  Headers  of'  Trilby  " 
will  remember  her  rendering  of  tlii. 
song  at  her  Paris  concert.) 
54,  20. 

"IVtV'H/  les  niriiNrin —  .  .   . 

Gaudio  7i<istrii," 
"  Mnrrah  for  the  vacations — 
Come  at  Ic'igth  ; 
AikI  the  pimishments 

Will  have  ended  ! 
The  ushers  uncivil, 

With  barbarous  countenance. 
Will  go  to  the  devil, 
'To  our  joy." 
5(5.  20.   Music    de    Marine  —  Marine 

Mu.seum. 
.^»('»,  2W.  enuui — tedium. 
57,  7.  en  rhelorique  et  en  philosnphie  -~ 
in    the    rhetoric    and    philosophy 
classes. 
57  0,  cerf-  dix  -  cors  —  ten  -  brancheil 

stags. 
57,  13.  venire  a  tcrre — at  full  upeed. 

57,  17.   Tiiujours  nu  clair  ik  la  tune — 
Always  by  moonlight. 

58,2.  Iiummes  dn  tnonde — men  of  the 
world  (in  society). 

58,  4.  Uplenilide  w«'«(/fJ.T— Nobly  false. 
5H,  18.  stdle  d'etudes — school-room. 
68,22.  en    cinqnieme  —  in     the     liflh 

class. 
5!t,  M».  de  Iter  rice — on  duty. 
51*,  17.  la  suite  an  prucluiin  untnero — 

to  becontinue<l  in  our  next. 
51),  IJ).  Le  'I'ueu rile  J faims— The  Dwr 
slayer. 


59,  20    f.e    Lac   Otthino— The    Lake 
Ontario. 
/,r     /hiiiier    iles     Midiicaus — 

Tlu'  Last  of  the  Mohicans. 
l.<s  /'inunicis — The  I'ioneers. 
59,  31.  lias  -  de  -  cuir  —  Leather  -  stock- 
ing. 
GO,  10.  1,1    tlotle  de  I'ttssj/— {he   I'as.sy 
crowd. 
rayiius — blackguard.s. 
(50.13,   Liberie  — ei/ulitS — fraterniie  ! 
ii't  lit  ntort !      Vive  la  rtjiuhlique — 
Lilnrty  —  <<|uaiily  —  fraternity !  or 
death  !     Hurrah  for  the  republic  ! 
<iO,  22.  le  rajtpil — to  arms. 

Ill  qt'iifride  -the  lire  drum, 
fil.ll.   luiijdnd  lie  la  Loire — I^rigand 

of  the  Loire. 
(32,  3.  in    pliine    rindudon  —  in    the 

midst  of  the  revohuion. 
62,  .').  pii)u-j)iiii> — the  French  equiva- 
knt  of  I'oinmy  Atkins.     A  private 
soldier. 

02,  17.  Sent uii III s.  jivnez-fjarde  h  vous 
— Sentinels.  kee|)  on  the  alert. 

()2,  22.  y' ■  de  /iiliitan — platoon  lire. 

03,  fi.  "^V  sacre  Jiissi  liu  —  il  iirait  (ous 
les  talents!" — "That  confounded 
.losselin — he  had  all  the  talents!" 

I  04.  10.  /(7>('//(>/(/-  farewell. 
01,  11.  bonsnir,  le  Imn  Mozart — good- 

niglit.  g'Mid  Mo/art. 
!  01,  13.  ('Iiittcau  dis  I'leurs — Castle    of 
}       Flowers. 
05,  5.   Tout  rient  a  qui  ne  saif  ])as  at- 
tendre — F.verything   comes   to  him 
who  does  not  kn(»w  how  to  wait. 
05,  13.  rerenuiis — let  us  go  back. 
05,  24.   iviperiale — (uitsidc  .=!eat. 
(55,  20.    saucissDN   de    L^on   a  I'ail-  a 
j       Lyons  sausage  llavored  with  garlic. 
(15,  27.  petils  jiaius—roMx  of  bread. 
I  05,  28.  bil're  de  Mars — Mars  beer. 
I  (iO,  12.  entre    lis    deux  di/es — between 
i       the  two  ages,  • 

(iO,  18.  Le    due   iles    Aulnes  —  Alders 

F.ird. 
07,  1.   Si  ris  pucini,  pnra   billuni — If 

you  wish  peace,  prepare  for  war. 
07,  13.  tutoijies — addressed  us  "thee" 
and  "  thou,"  usual  only  among  fa- 
miliars. 


io — Tlie    Lake 

',«     Miihiams — 
lie  Mdliicaiis. 
Tlie  rioiipcra. 
Leather   stock - 

ay—ihc  I'assy 

nanls. 

ie — I'niternite  ! 

Ill  7fj)ub/it/iie — 

—  fraternity!  <»r 

the  republic ! 

mis, 

c  tiro  (iriim. 

Loire — Hrigand 

'iidon  —  in    the 

ion. 

Krencli  equiva- 

Ans.     A  private 

iezf/(trde  h  vvus 
II  (lie  alert, 
-platoon  lire. 
liii  —  il  (intit  (ous 
luit    confounded 
11  the  talents!" 
well. 
MiKitrt — pood- 

'h'urs — Castle   of 

d  ne  unit  pits  at- 
f   comes    to  him    , 

how  to  wait. 
n^<  K"  hack, 
itside  -eat. 

I.ifon  a  I' ail'  a 
rored  with  fjarlio. 
rolls  of  bread, 
t — Mars  beer. 

X  lif/cit — between 

• 

Aulncs  —  Alders 

pant  hiUiim — If 
repare  for  war. 
Iressed  as  "tliee" 
\\  only  among  fa- 


465 


(57,  10.  bonnets  do  coton  —  cotton  caps. 

(W,  \'l  at\ijut—(}u  the  watch. 

(W,  "JH.  "<"'«/«/    Ciiiii!   i/n'(i.t  ■ />(  J'liif 

(le     Ion   //•«;•« 3"'— "Cain  !     ("ain! 

what    hast    thou    done    with    thy 

brother  V" 
69,  H.  le  sftut  perilli'vr—Xhi'.   perilous 

leaji. 
G!>,  20.  que  f  u\ii  jttmiiix  en — whom 

I've  never  seen, 
est,  "ilt.   '^/fiii  iiioi    ifue(i     '■/'"'f  fn    nn- 

y,//.y"_  -''I',.]!    „n.    sotnclliiiifjf    in 

Knjrjish." 
GO,    3-.>.    "Qiie'r/    f«     rent     direT — 

"  What's  tiial  mean':'" 

69,  33.  '*  //  ii\i;iit  il'iine  ef//i.<e  ef  d'un 
cimeliere  r—''h'A  about  a  church 
and  a  cemetery  !" 

70,  5.  "  ."hnontre  -  iiioi  ini  prohieme  de 
(/eoniftrie'"—*'  Demonstrate  to  me  a 
proi)lcm  of  geometry." 

70,  13,   ^^  l>emontre  II,  ,i  que  A-\- H  est 

pins  (jrand  que  6'-|- />"--'•  Demon- 
strate to  me  that  A  +  H  is  greater 

than  C  +  D." 
70,  17.  *'(^\st  Joliiiieiif  hi'dii,  la  r/eaiiie- 

/,iV/"— "  It's     mighty     lin«',     this 

geometry  !" 
70,21.  briile  /y/^fU/c  —  jaw-burner    (a 

short  pipe). 
70,  31 .  "  .\/iiuf/r-iiioi  fd—fii  V  faa  dn 

bien.'"—"  Hat  that  for  me;  'it  '11  do 

you  good !" 
72,  1.  iSdis j)(is—\)o\\'tk\\ow. 
72,  4.  /'' /•('   I'oli//dieine—l!athcr  Toly- 

phemus.  '     | 

72,  12.  ees    messiiitrs  —  those    gentle-  I 

men. 
72,  22.  ' '  //rf .'    ,m  feinme .'"  -  -  "  Iley ! 

my  wife  !"  '     i 

72,23.  "  I'oila,   roiln,   iiion    ami."'' — 

"  Here,  here,  my  friend  !" 
72,  24.   "  \'i<iis   .'i/e  panscr   vmn  ran- 

tiire  r — "  Come  tpiick  and  dress  my 

cautery  !" 
72,  27.  (V(/i'— coffee. 
72,  32.   "  (hi,  M'.veiir  Laferti  "— "  Yes, 

IMsieur  l/lVrto." 
72,  33    "  Tire  iiioi  uue  qainme  " — ''  Fire 

ort'a  (H-ale  for  un\" 
73,3.  "A/i!    q'  fa  fait  dn   hien.'"— 

"Ah  !  that  dots  one  good  !" 


7;?,  20.  '  "  (...(ill,'  disinf  T.isett*',"  etc.— 
"  •  Colin,'  said  I  jsette, 

'I  want  to  cro.ss  the  water! 
Hut  I  am  too  poor 

To  |)ay  for  the  boat !' 
'(Jet  in,  get  in,  my  beauty! 

Git  in,  get  in,  nevertheles.s  I 
Antl  off  with  the  wherry 
That  carries  my  love  !  '" 
7.5,  IH.  /('  ilroii  ilu  su'i/iiiiir — tlie  right 

of  the  lord  of  the  manor. 
"•"),  27.  Ames  en  peine — Souls  in  pain. 
7:>,  2<S.    ,SV(*^s-  Ifi   hi'ri/e  hnutee,  etc. 
IJiKUr  the  haunted  bank 

The  stagnant  water  lies — 
Under  the  sombre  woods 
The  dog-fo.K  cries, 
And  the  ten  iirai.ched  stag  bells,  and 
the  deer  come  to  drink  at  the  Pond 
of  Hespite. 

"  Let  me  go.  Werewolf !" 
How  dark  is  the  pool 

Wlien  falls  the  night — 
The  owl  is  scared. 

And  the  badger  takes  flight ! 
And  one  feels  that  the  dead  are  awake 
— that  a  nameless  shadow  pursues. 
"Let  me  go,  Were-wolf !" 

76,  29. 

"  Prom'tinns-tioiis  ilans  f'H  bois 
Pendant  que  le  luiip  n\i/  est  pas," 

'  Let  us  walk  in  the  woods 
While  the  wolf  is  not  there." 

77,  7.  pas  ant'  <7<o.s«'— nothing  else. 
77,  10.   t")st  pins  fort  que  luoi — It  is 

stronger  than  I. 

77,  20.  "  //  «.•*/  /res  mMiant  .'"—'*  He  is 
very  malicious!" 

77,  2(i.  "  renez  done!  il  est  Ires  7naiirais. 
le  taureaii  !" — "come  now  I  the  bull 
is  viTV  mischievous  !" 

7S,  1,  Hon  rof/ai/e .'  an  plaisir — Pleas- 
ant journey!  to  the  pleasure  (of  see- 
ing you  ag(iin). 

7H,  ><,  "/('  siini/-  f'roiil  iln  (liable!  now 
d'ini  ]'illiiii//i,n  .'"_"  the  devil's  own 
coolne.xs,  by  Wellington !" 

7W,  1.").  f//f//V( --(h'vil. 

78,17.  "rv'.v  Anijlais!  Je  it  en  reciens 
pas!  il  qiiatorze  «».«.'  fiein,  nuifem- 
Hjf.  }<"_"(  hoise  Knglish  !  I  can't  get 
over  it!  at  fuurteeu !  eh,  my  wife'/" 


1^ 


466 


5 


80,10.  enfamillp — nt  home. 
80,  18.  chiirtibancs — wagfuiottrs. 

80,  )Vi.  desc/iieruinnf/liivt — Kiigliih  dogs. 

81,  1.  charmiUes — hedges. 

pelouses — lawns, 
yuinconcea— quincunxes 
81,  13.  Fif/(iro  qua,  Fiijaro  la — Figaro 

hero,  Figaro  tJiere. 
81,  17.  ihdrbouniera — charcoal  burners. 
81,25.  (lepayse — away  from  lionie. 

desorienii — out  of  lii.s  hearings. 
81,  26.  perdu— \mt 

81,  27.  "  Ayrz  pitU  (ritn  pinirrr  orphe- 
liti!"—  "  I'ity  a  poor  orphan  !" 

82,  19.  "  Pioc/ic  hien  Id  (jei)uiitni',  num 
htm  petit  Josnelin  !  r\'st  la  pliix  Ixlle 
science  au  monde,  croUmoi .'"  — "  Dig 
away  at  j'our  geometry,  my  good 
little  Josselin !  It's  the  finest  science 
in  the  worUI,  believe  me!" 

82,  26.  Ixmrru  biiiij'aisant — a  gruff  but 
good-natured  man. 

82,  AA.  "  Kiijiii !  Ca  y  eat !  quelle 
chance .'"  —  "  At  last !  I've  got  it ! 
what  luck !" 

83,  1.  qwii — what. 

83,  2.  -Af  w()>v/—f'«'sC  mTHM.'"— "The 

north— it's  come  back !" 
83,7.  line  bonne  fortune  —  a  love  ad- 
venture. 
83,  10.  Les  Laiteries — The  Dairies. 
Les  I'oteries — The  Potteries. 
Les    Crucheries  —  The    Pitch- 
cries  (also  The  Stupidities). 
83,  26.  /oi— thou. 
83,  27.  rofts — you. 

83,  2H.  Notre  Phe,  etc. — See  note  to 
page  16,  line  21. 

83,  30.  A  insi  soit-il — So  be  it. 

81,  4.  (in  nom  du  Pere — in  the  name 
of  the  Father. 

84,  31.  yiivillon  des  petits —  building 
occupied  by  the  younger  boys, 

86,  4.  cf/wr/y— dunce. 

86,  6.  cretin — idiot. 

86,  6.  troisievie — third  cliiss. 

86,  7.  lihi'torique  (seconde)  —  Rhetoric 
(secttnd  class). 

86,  8.  Pliilosophie  (premiere) — Philos- 
ophy (lirst  class). 

86,  10.  linccaUiuriaths-lettres — Bach- 
elor uf  letters. 


]  87,  27.  Tn'amour  (mon    iirnour)  —  my 
'      love. 

87,  33.  en  henuti — at  his  b<!st. 

88, 8.  "  Le  Chaitt  du  Depart  "-  '•  The 
Song  of  Departure." 

88,  10. 

"  Iai  I'icloire  en   chnnltiut  anus  nnvre 
la  caniere! 
I      I, a  liherte  e  ,'/ui  !  de  it'ix  yx/a  "  .  .  . 

"  Victory  shows   ns  onr   course  with 
!  Song! 

Liberty  guides  our  st(i)s"  .  .  . 
88,2.").  *'  (luil  <liiinnni(/e  .  .   .    rUst  ton 
I      jour.i  fa  .'" — ••  What  a  jiily  that  we 
can't   have  crumpets!     Hartv  likes 
I       them    so    much.      Don't    you    like 
j      cruni|)ets,   my   dear?     Mere  comes 
I      some    buttered    toast-  it's    always 
i      tliat!" 
88,  20.  "  .1/f)H  /)leu,  comme  il  a  bonne 
mine  .   .   .  dans   la   ijlace  " — "  ( Jood 
heavens,  how  well  he  looks,  the  dear 
Harty  ! — don't  you  iliiiik  so,  my  love, 
tiiat  you  iiiok  wcUV     Look  at  your- 
self in  the  gla.'^.s." 

88,  32.  *'.s'/  nans  alliens  a  rili/ipodrome 
.  .  .  anssilisjtdirsj'imnics'/" — "  If  we 
went  to  the  Hippodrome  titis  after- 
noon, to  see  the  lovely  eipicstrian 
Madame  Hichard?  Harty  adores 
pretty  women,  like  his  nndc!  Don't 
you  adore  pretty  women,  yon  naugh- 
ty little  Harty  V  and  you  have  never 
seen  Madame  Kichard.  You'll  tell 
me  what  you  tiiink  of  her;  and  you, 
my  friend,  do  you  also  adore  pretty 
women  V^" 

89,  6.  "  ^>  oui,  allons  voir  Madame 
Itichard" — "Oh  yes!  let  us  go  and 
M'e  Madame  Hichard." 

89,  9.  la  haute  ecole — tlie  high  school 
(of  horsemanship). 

89,  14.  Cafe  des  A  ceuyles—Cii(&  of  the 
Hlind. 

90,  4.  "  Qn\stce  que  vuus  avez  done, 
/o«.< /"'_"  What's  the  matter  with 
you  all?" 

90,  f).  "  f,e  Phe  lirossard  est  viort .'" 
— "  Father  llrossjird  is  dead  !" 

90,  It).  "  Jl  est  tumhi  du  tiaut  nud  "— 
"  lie  died  of  the  falling  sickness," 

90,  13.  dismuvrement—'uWnxeaa, 


467 


mour)  —  my 
The 


K'St. 
Ut  " 


'  umts  nuvre 

s  pus  "... 
CDiirsn   will) 


.  r'tst  toil 
I  lily  tliat  \v«' 

IJiirty  like.s 
't  yoii  like 
Hi're  comes 
ii's    always 

3  tV  a  bonne 
:-e  "_"(;». od 
iks,  I  lie  (iear 
so,  my  love, 
lok  at  yoiir- 

//i/ipinlrome 
,y"_»ir„e 
5  tills  aftcr- 

(■({iK'Mtriaii 
irty  adores 
icl'c!  Don't 
yon  naii^h- 
have  never 

Yon'll  tell 
r;  and  yon, 
(lore  pretty 

r  Mmlame 
:  us  go  and 

ligh  school 

Caf6  of  the 

itvez  done, 
attcr  with 

est  viort !" 

1(1 1" 

i,(  mid"— 

ckness," 

!88. 


91,8.  de  service  as  maitre  d" etudes — 

on  duty  as  study-master. 
93,  27.   "  Ditest   ihnc,   vous   uiiliis " — 

"  Say  now,  you  (»t  Iters." 

93,  29.  panein  et  circettses — bread  and 
games. 

94,  19,  ^'Allez  dune  ...  a  L<i  Salle 
I'lilenfino" —  "(lo  it,  godems — this 
is  not  a  quadrille!  We're  not  at 
Valentino  Hall!" 

95,  1.  ^'  Ateitsieurs  .  .  .  est  stiuf  "  — 
"(jentlemen,  Idood  has  llown  ;  liri- 
tannic  honor  is  safe." 

95,3.  "■.I'lti  jidiinent  //m/"— "  I'm 
mighty  hungry !" 

96,  I.   '•  Que  lie  puis-je  idler"  etc. 

"  Why  can  I  not  go  where  the  ros(!s  go, 
And  not  await 
The  hearthreaking  regrets  which  the 
end  of  things 

Keeps  for  us  here?" 
9(5,8.  "Afi  Manuel  dii  liaccalanreid" 

— '•  The  Haccalaureat's  Manual." 
90,  24.  nn  privut  —a  fencing  •  master's 
assistant. 

97,  r».  rez-de-chaiissie—\fTmi\v\  Hoor. 
97,:).  "  A«i   plnie   de  J'erles"—"  TUc 

Shower  of  Pearls." 
97,12.  quart  d'heure — quarter  of  an 

hour. 
97,  17.  <iu  petit  bonheur — come  what 

may. 

97,  20.  vieur  loup  de  mer — old  sea-wolf. 

98,  2.  Afon  Colonel— 'My  Colonel. 

98,  (5.  endimanchi — Sundaytie<l  (dressed 
up). 

99,  II.  chefs-iVceuvre — masterpieces. 
99,  24.  rhatisnn — song. 

99,  27.  "  Cefait  un  Capucin"  etc. 
"  It  was  a  Capuchin,  oh  yes,  a  Capu- 
chin father, 

Who  confessed  three  girls — 
Itou,  itou,  itou,  li\  111  lii ! 

Who  confes-sed  throe  girls 
At  the  bottom  of  his  gai'den — 

Oh  yes — 
At  the  bottom  of  his  garden  I 

He  said  to  the  youngest — 
Itou,  itou,  itou,  III  111  \k ! 

He  saiil  to  the  youngest 
t .  .  '  You  will  come  back  to-mor- 
row.'" 


100,  7.  nn  icho  du  temps  passi  —  an 

echo  of  the  olden  times. 
100,11.  ej«/)/i/    (Jaulois — old    French 

wit. 
100,  20.  "  Sur  votre  parole  d'/ionneur, 

avez  ■  vous  chante  f"  —  "  On    your 

word  «>f  honor,  have  '  <>u  sung?" 
100,  22.  "  .V..W,  w'.sjVv;- '.'"—"  No,  sir!" 

100,  32.  "  Out,  ;/t'.f«V«r .'"— "  Yes,  sir." 
KM,  5.  "  ['ous  i'tes  tons  corudijuis!" — 

**  You  are  all  kept  in  I" 

101,  10.  de  service — on  duty. 

101,  19.  ".4m  moins  vous  urez  du  coeur 
.  .  .  sale  hiittoire  de.  Capucin .'" — 
"  You  at  least  have  spirit.  Promise 
me  that  you  will  not  again  sing  that 
dirtv  story  about  the  Capuchin  !" 

102,  24. 

"  Slabat  mater"  etc. 
"  By  the  cross,  sad  vigil  keeping, 
Sioim!  the  mournful  mother  weeping, 
While  on  it  the  Saviour  hung"  . .  . 

|02,  30.  "  .4/t .'  ma  c/iere  Mamzelle 
Afarceline .'  , .  .  FJ  nne  boussole  dans 
Veslomac !" — "Ah!  my  dear  Miss 
Marceline,  if  they  were  only  all  like 
that  little  Josselin !  things  would 
go  as  if  they  were  on  wheels!  That 
English  youngster  if  as  innocent  as 
a  young  calf*  lit;  has  God  in  his 
heart."  "  And  a  compass  in  his 
stomach !" 

104,29.  "  /I A.'  man  cher!  .  .  .  Chan- 
tez-moi  fa  encore  unefois!" — "  Ah  I 
my  dear!  what  wouldn't  I  give  to 
see  the  return  of  a  whaler  at  Whit- 
by !  What  a  '  marine  '  that  would 
mr.kc!  eh?  with  the  high  cliiT  and 
the  nice  little  church  on  top,  near 
the  old  abbey — and  the  red  smoking 
roofs,  and  the  three  stone  piers,  anti 
the  old  drawbridge — and  all  that 
swarm  of  watermen  with  their  wives 
and  children — and  those  fine  girls 
who  are  waiting  for  the  return  of 
the  loved  one!  bj' Jove!  to  think 
that  you  have  seen  all  that,  you 
who  are  not  yet  sixteen  .  .  .  what 
luckl  .  .  .  say — what  does  that 
really  mean?— that 

*  W  eel  may  the  keel  row  I' 
Sing  that  to  me  once  again  l" 


468 


fi 


/ 

I. 


105,  21.  "  .1  // .'  VDiift  rerrez  ,  . .  rnii.t  y 
I'fi-s,  en  Jilt  in!" — "Ah!  yoii  will  sec, 
(luring  tlio    IvistLT   liolidiiys   I  will 
make  siicli  n  tiiK>  pictiin-  of  all  thai  ! 
with  I  ho  ('vciiiii;^  mist  that  ^atlicrs, 
yoii  know  —  and  the  si  tlint^  suiS,  and 
the  ri>in^  tide,  and  tin;  moon  com 
in^  up  ()M  th(!  hori/.on,  and  the  sea- 
mews  and  tlic  t^nWH,  niid    the   far- 
oft'  heaths,  and   yonr  grandfather's 
lordly  old  manor;  that's  it,  isn't  it  "i*" 
■'  Ves,  yes,  ]\Ir.  IJon/.ig— yon   are 
rif^ht.  in  it." 
lOG, ti!».  ''("if, til ildiis lit nitit Ijiiiiic," etc. 
"Twas  ill  ilie  dnsUy  nif^lit 
On  the  yellowed  steeple, 

The  moon, 
Like  a  dot,  on  an  i !" 

108,  17.  en  Jhtyrant  ilelit — in  the  very 
act. 

105),  4.   1(1  j)efjide  Albion  —  perfidious 

Albion. 
109,8.  ''A  ban  nnniollaid!"—'' Down 

with  Dnmollard !" 

109,  17.  rknilt'  entiere  —  the  whole 
school. 

100,  10.   "  Kit-ce  foi?"—''  Is  it  thou?" 
100,  28.   "  \<ni,    ni'.iienr,   ce   w'oV    juts 
inoi!" — "No,  sir,  it  isn't  me!" 

110,  17.  "  I'ltrn'  f/ii'if  (lime  A.f  Aiii/fais, 
ma  J'oi  —  (iffitire  dc  i/oul .'"  —  "  Ue- 
caiise  he  likes  the  KMji;lish,  in  faith — 
a  matter  of  taste!" 

110,  19.  "  Mafoi,  il  n\t  pas  tort  !"— 
"In  faith,  he's  n')t  wroiij^!" 

110,2'!.  '' Xon .'  jdinttis  en  Fnince, 

Jdvutis  Anijhiis  ne  refjiieni .'" 
"No!   never  in  France, 
Never  shall  Kiij^lishman  reipn !" 

111,  5.  au  piquet  pour  une  lieu  re — in 

the  corner  for  nn  hour. 
II  la  reteiiue — kept  in, 
111,  6.  prircde  bain — not  to  go  swim- 
ming. 
cousiijiie  diinanclie  prnchain — 
kejit  in  iie.xt  Sunday. 
111,0.   de    viortibu.1    nil    desperaiidiiui 
— an  incorrect  version  of  de  inortuis 
nil  nisi  bonuin:  of  the  dead  nothing 
l)nt  good. 
Ill,  27.  area  des  i/eiis  du  monde — with 
people  ill  society. 


111,  154.  et,  via  ^1  It,  le  sort  a  farmisi 
M.  le  Marrpiis — and,  in  failh,  fort- 
une favored  M.  le  Manpii.s. 

112,'.'  runs  vffs  ini  /xiltoipnt  et  nn 
iiistre — you  arc  a  clown  and  a  hoor. 

112,  IM.  c/itKSf  de  f/eof/rapliie  iiiivieiiue 
— cla>*s  of  ancient  gcoi;r;iphy. 

112,  'li>.    "  Timiii  Jhiiiaos  <l  doiiaj'er- 
eiiles\''-—"  i    fear  the  (Ireeks   even 
when  they  hear  gifts  !" 
il4,  ;{.    "  /,»'  Imisi'iiie   coup   /'(lit  Jen, 
runs     sarez" — "The     third      blow 
strikes  lire,  you  know." 
Ill,  2i>.    tisaiiis — infusions. 
IH,  31.    "C'lst  iiioi  (pii  niudniis  .   .    . 
vomine   il  ent   poll"  —  "It's   myself 
that  woidd  like  to  have  the  mumps 
h«'re.      I  should  dtlay  my  convalea- 
I      ceiice  as  much  as  possible!" 
I  "  llow    well   your    uncle   knows 

French,  and  how  polite  he  is  !" 
;  110,  13.    Xous  aroiis  tons  jxisse  par  la 

—We  have  all  been  through  it. 
!  11  (i,  o'.i.    '*  7'e  rappelles-tn  .  .  .  du  ji'ere 
I       Jaiirittn  /" — '*  Do    you    recall     l!er- 
I      (juin's  new  coat  and  his  high  hat  V" 
I  '•  Do  you  reinemlier  father  Jau- 

I      rion's  old  angora  cat  T 

IIM,  7.  '■'Paille  a,  JJiiie,"  etc.,  is  liter- 
!      ally : 

I   "Straw  for  Dine— straw  for  Chine — 
Straw  for  Suzette  and  Alanine — 
Good  bed  for  the  Dumaine!" 
110,  1.   ''  I'ourquoi,  insieur r 

"  I'arve  (pie  fa  me  plait  !" 
"What  for,  sirT 
"  Hecause  it  pleases  me  !" 
110,18.  nn   jKiint,   etc.  —  a    period  — 
semi  -  colon  —  colon — exclamation — 
inverted    commas — begin  a  paren- 
thesis. 
110,  ;{ I.   "  7'c    rappelles-tn    cette    ome- 
lette f — "Do  you    remember  that 
omelette '?" 
120,  1.  version  ecrite — written  version. 
120, 1.")    (pie    niallienrl — what   a  mis- 
fortune ' 
120,  10.  "  ( './  pne  I'iiijustice,  ici .'"— "  It 

sliidvs  of  injustice,  her*; !" 
-20.  25.   "'  Milte  francs  par  an!    ^'est 
le  Pactole'" — "A  thou.sand  francs  a 
year !  it  is  a  Pactolus !" 


469 


I" 


122,  7.  "■  Je  t^en  prie,  mm  gar^on  /" — 

"  I  jiray  yon,  my  boy  1" 
123.24.    /.'/  r/i'/ssc  <in.r  HDurciiirs  il'en- 
J'itnci' ! — Hiihiiiif^  rcmoijiljraiices  of 
cliililliood ! 
121,;}.  "  ,/('    mtirclnrni  les  yeux  Jires 

siir  nics  pennies,"  etc. 
'•  I  will  walk  with  my  eyes  lixcd  on 
my  lhuii;;lits, 
Sof'iiiij    not  hi  111^  out.sido,  without 
hrariiij;  a  sound — 
Hy    my.scU",   unknown,  with   bowed 
back  and  hands  oros.-^cd  : 
Sad — and   I  hi-  day  will   (or    me 
bo  as  nif^ht." 
125,  4.  fM'dit  cminiH'  Ic  jour — beautiful 

as  day. 
125,  (!.  /(/    rosaif/niille  —  the    iiightiii- 

fjalc  (feminine.) 
125,  15. 

"  A    iSdiuf    hlaize,  a  la  Znecai,"  etc. 
"  At  St.  Hlaize.  and  at  Ziieoca  .  .  . 
You  were,  yon  were  very  well  I 
At  St.  IJlaize,  and  at  Zuecca .  .  . 
We  were,  we  were  happy  there ! 
Hut  to  thiidv  of  it  again 
Will  you  ever  careV 
Will  you  think  of  it  apjain? 
Will  you  come  once  more? 
At  St.  Hlaize,  and  at  Zuecca  .  .  . 
To  live  there  and   to  die!" 
125,  .32.  fi'te  de  W<.-6'/ok(/— festival  of 

St.  Cloud. 
125.  ;$.'{.  blitncbmeuxe — laundress. 
133,  30.  "  Rinj  iw  y)«w,  prince  ne  daif/ne, 
liolinn  je  sitis!" — "  Kin<f  I  cniuot 
be,  prince  [  would  not  be,  Hohan  I 


am 


I" 


i;}3,  34.  ^'  Rohiin  tie  puis,  roi  ne  (faii/ne. 


Rienje  suis 


-"  l{ohan  I  <"anuot  be, 


kiuf;  I  would  not  be.  Nothinjj;  I  am!" 
135,  10.    i/rnnileii     dmnes     de    par    le 

mondc — great  ladies  of  the  world. 
137,  (').  "(>   laehrymuriim  fous  !"—'^  0 

font  Of  tears  I" 

140,  2"   Jewess  is  in  French, /mu'p. 

141,  10.  "  Esker  roo  ker  j<  r  diniw  hih 
reef     Ah!  kil  lioiinnre .'"     Anglo- 
French  for  "  /'!st  re  que  runs  (pie  je 
dois  hirer.     Ah!  i/iid  hoiiheur  !" — ] 
"  Is  it  that  you  that  I  must  wash  V  ; 
Ah !  what  happiness !"  | 


142,12.  Paziema — Patience. 

143, 8.  '•  AV  siiior  ultni  crepidtim  !" — 

"  A  cobbler  should  stick  to  his  last!" 
145,  1.  " /-(/  cifpile  inpinl  rhniitc,"  eic. 

''The  grasshopper,  having  sung 
The  summer  through, 
Foimd  herself  destitute 
When  the  north  wind  came."  . .  . 
146,20.  "  iSprette     iiijiiria    Joritiie"  — 

"  The  insidt  lo  her  despist-d  beauty." 
140,  31.  hi/Ills  d()U.r—    )ve  letters. 
152,  H.  "  An   phis  J'liiie  des  j'orcfs  est 

un  ciiiir  iiiiiDcent" — "  The  strong«'st 

of  strengths  is  an  innocent  heart." 
154,;?.  *'  7'iiiis.tieiis!  .  .   .  eeotite !" — 

"  There,  there  !   it's  deucedly  pretty 

that— listen!" 

154,  8,  "  J/(»'a',  Hoiii  d'nne  pipe  —  elle 
e.if  diriiie,  cetfe  mnsiijue-la  !"  — 
"  But,  by  jingo,  it's  divine,  that 
mn.sic!" 

155,  2().  bouir/eois — the  middle  class. 
).>5,  34.  nuuveuux  riches  —  newly  rich 

people. 
158,  2.   'Ln  mill  let izin  !"—'' 'My  .loy  !" 
IGO,  17.  ^' Jieiin    cherulier   qui   partez 

pour  la  f/uen-e,"  etc. 
"  Hrave  cavalier,  off  to  the  war, 
What  will  you  do 
So  far  from  here? 
Do  you  not  see  that  the  night  is  dark, 
And  that  the  world 
Is  only  care?" 
KJO,  2;?.  "Aft  Climmm  de  liarberine" — 

"The  Song  of  Harberine." 
100,  28.  cascaiiieche — nightcap  tas.sel. 
inoutardier  du  pape — pope's 

mustardman. 
tromhlvn  -  hoUrard  —  broad- 
briujined  I  lunderbuss. 
It(0,  29.   vieiix  coqueUeot — old  P'>|ipy. 
ItiO, 31.   "  VoDS  (lip  (um  iVir  !"    Angio 
French  for  "  Vims  I'tes  un  aufre  !" — 
"  Von  are  another !" 
I()2,  10.   ("est  timjDiirs  coinme  fit — It's 

always  like  that. 
i(j;j,  17.  h  bun  chaff  bun  rat — a  Holand 

for  an  Oliver. 
l()l),  14.  pnudre     insecticide  —  insect- 
powder. 
7norl  aux  punaises — death  to 
the  bugs. 


I' 


\/ 


:i-^ 


470 


166, 22   permonnat     de    demoiselles — 

young  ladies'  LMtarding-school. 
166,  28.  Je  connais  fu — I  know  that. 
168, 8.  euH  sucrie — sweetened  water. 

168,  18.  ('(eur  de  Lion — Lion  Heart. 

le   Pre  aux   Clercs — Parson's 
Green. 

169,  17.  rapins — art  students. 
170,14.  " /iotijour,  Afonsieur  Bonzig! 

comment  allezvous?" —  "Good-day, 
Mr.  lk)nzig!  how  do  you  do?" 

170, 17.  "  Pardonnez  ■  tnoi,  monsieur — 
mats  je  n\ii  pas  Vhonnenr  de  vous 
remettre .'" — ''  Pardon  me,  sir — but 
I  have  not  the  honor  to  remember 
your  face !" 

170, 19.  "  Je  nCappelle  Josselin  —  de 
chez  Jirossard!" — "My  name  is 
Josselin — from  Brossard's  !" 

170,  20.  "  A  h  !  MoH  Dien,  vion  ckcr, 
mon  tres-cher .'" — "  Ah  !  My  God, 
my  dear,  my  very  dear !" 

170,  23.  "  Mais  quel  bonheur.  .  .  .  Je 
rien  reviens  pas .'" — "  But  what  good 
luck  it  is  to  see  you  again.  1  think 
of  you  so  often,  and  of  Whitby  !  how 
you  have  altered !  and  what  a  fine- 
looking  fellow  you  are !  who  would 
have  recognized  j'ou  I  Lord  of  Lords 
— it's  a  dream !    I  can't  get  over  it !" 

170,  34.  "  Non,  mon  cher  Josselin  " — 
"  No,  my  dear  Josselin." 

172,  4.  unpeinire  de  marines — a  painter 
of  marines. 

172,  16.  garde champetre — park-keeper. 

172,  27.  ministere — public  office. 

172,  31.  '■^Cheureou  lejaune  de  Xaples 
rentre  dans  la  nature" — "  the  hour 
when  Naples  yellow  comes  again  into 
nature." 

178,  31.  bimnefriture—^QwX  fried  fish. 

173,  32.   fricassee  de    lapin  —  rabbit 

fricasee. 
pommes  saulies — French  fried 

potatoes. 
aoupe  aux  choux  —  cabbage 
soup. 
174, 1.  cafi  chantant — music-hall. 

bal  de  barriere — ball  held  in  the 
outer  districts  of  Paris,  usual- 
ly composed  of  the  rougher 
element. 


174,  3.  bonsoir  la  compagnie  —  good- 
night to  the  company. 

174,  26    ].'irjixe—\\\i}{\  price. 

175,  6    ailf  de  povlvl — chicken's  wing. 

peche  an  tin — peach  preserved 
in  wine. 
175,  9.   entre  la  poire  et  le  fromage — 

between  pear  and  cheese. 
175,    15     jluning  —  from    Jldner,    to 
lounge. 

175,  28.  "  Afofoi,  mon  cher .'"— "  My 
word,  my  dear !" 

176,  .S.  ma  viuvgein/fe — my  victuals. 
176,  18.    At  out  de  Pi^le — pawnshop. 

176,  24.  mom'  trislemitit,  a  I'aiiglnise — 
with  much  sadness,  after  the  Eng- 
lish fashion. 

177,  12.  un  jour  de  s^aradon,  vous 
comprenez  — a  day  of  separation,  you 
understand. 

177,  14.  a  la  vinaigrette — with  vine- 
gar .sauce. 

177,  16.  nous  en  Jerons  Ferperience — 
we  will  try  it. 

177, 19.  maillot — bathing-suit. 
pngr.idr — wrapper. 

177,21.  "C)/*.'  la  mer!  .  .  .  chez 
fiufwt I"—'' Oh  I  the  sea,  the  sea! 
At  last  I  am  going  to  take  my 
header  into  it — and  not  later  than 
tomorrow  evening.  ,  .  .  Till  to-m<»r 
row,  mv  dear  comrade — six  o'clock 
-at  Biibet's !" 

177,27.  piquant  sa  tete  —  taking  hia 
header. 

178,  I.  sergent  de  ville — policeman. 
178,4.  "  «/j  jour   d.  separation  .  .   , 

nagerons  de  conserve '^ — "a  day  of 
separation  !  but  come  also,  ilosxelin 
— we  will  take  our  headers  together, 
and  swim  in  each  other's  company." 
178, 13.  "  eu  sifpie  <le  mon  deuil " — "  aa 

a  token  of  my  mourning." 
178,  23.  plage — beach. 
178, 30.  dame  de  comptoir — the  lady 

at  the  counter. 
178, 83.  demi-tasse  —  small  cup  of  cof- 
fee. 
petit  verre  —  small    glass    of 
brandy. 

180. 13.  avec  taut  d'esprit  — so  wittily. 

180. 14.  rancune — grudge. 


471 


181,14.  bon   raconteur  —  good    story- 
teller. 

181,  Ifi.  "/.»/  plus  Mlo  fille  .  .  .  ce 
7»/V//<'  a  .'" — "  TIk-  fairest  ;;irl  in  the 
world  can  f^ive  only  wimt  she  hiis!" 

182,  5.  romme  tuiit  iiii  rkdriin  sdit  —  as 
«(iirh  juid  every  one  knows. 

182,  24.  Tuut  f(i,r\.'it  tie  llilstinrp  tin- 
t'iiiiiif. — that's  all  ancient  history. 

183,8.  "/re.«  btl  liDinme  ,  .  .  f/tip  fnli 
f/digtiH  heiit  ?"  —  "tine  man.  Bob; 
more  of  the  tine  man  than  the  hand- 
some fellow,  eh  V" 

18;;,  12.  Men  coiiipUinents  —  My  com- 
pliments. 

183,  10.  "-Ctt  y  est,  iilnrs!  .  .  .  «  tm, 
bnii/icitr !" —  "'So  it's  settled,  then! 
I  conj.;ratulate  yon  heforcdiand.  and 
I  keep  my  tears  for  when  you  have 
j;one.  Let  ns  ijo  and  dine  at  15a 
hit's:  I  long  to  tlrink  to  vour  wel 
fare!" 

181,  1.  iiti'lier — art  studio. 
184,6.  le  lienn  Ji>xsiUn  —  the   hand 
some  ,)osselin. 

184,  8B.  serremeiit  tie  ccpur  —  heart 
hurning. 

185,  22.  Mitrchi  mix  (Knfi  —  I-^gg 
Market. 

180,4.  '' Afttlineii''  or  "  Loumin"— 
Belgian  l)eers. 

18G,  26.  ^^  Old  ;  nn  ntnnini  Vdlfens" 
—  "Ves;  one  called  VaUercs  " 
(French  proiuincialion  of  Walters i. 

18(),  28.  '' /'tirblt'ii,ce  bon  \'dltt-res-i< 
Vftnintiishien  .'" — "  Zonnds,  good  old 
Walters — I  know  him  well!" 

188,2(5.  primn  tviiore  —  Wrsl  tenor. 

188,  2!).  (juitles  —  a  Belgian  cavahy 
regiment, 

188,32.  Cercle  A  rtistique— Art  Club. 

191, 1.  "  O  celeste  littiiie,"  etc. 

«'0  celestial   hale. 

How  canst  thou  be  appeased? 
O  human  sutlering. 

Who  can  cure  thee  ? 
My  pain  is  so  heavy 

I  wish  it  would  kill  me — 

Such  is  my  desire. 

"  Heart  broken  by  thought, 
'  Weary  of  compassion, 


To  hear  no  more, 
Nor  see,  nor  feel, 

I  am  ready  to  j^ive 
My  parting  breath — 
And  this  is  my  desire. 

"To  know  nothing  more. 
Nor  remember  myself — • 
Never  again  to  rise, 
Nor  go  to  sleep — 
No  longer  to  be. 
But  to  have  done — 
That  is  my  desire !" 

!0|,23    Flenr  de  /y/^— Corn -flower. 

1*2.31.  "  Vitus  iillt'Z  a  /ilindenbert/lie, 
tiiDssie 'f^' — "You  go  to  Blanken- 
berghe,  sab  ?" 

11)3,  1  "./fi  Sf)vls  bienn  cimtent — nous 
Jenms  route  ensieinble.!"  (/«  siiis 
Men  content  —  nous  J'erons  rtmte  en- 
semble)— "  I  am  fcry  glad — ve  will 
make  ze  journey  togezzar !" 

11)3,5.  rai/iizzii — girl. 

11)3,  7.  "mm'  prtnlif/e,  nwssii  —  «»'  fe- 
nomeno  !" — "  a  prodigy,  sah — a  phe- 
nomenon !" 

1 1)3.  24.  Robert,  toi  que  faime — Robert, 
thou  whom  i  love. 

11)3,29.  ".1/(1  vous  aussi,  vous  etes 
mitusicien  —je  vois  gtt  par  la  votre 
Jigtmre!"  {Mdis  vous  iiussi  vous  etes 
musicien — je  vols  fti  par  votre  Jit/ - 
»/;¥.')—"  But  you  also,  you  are  a 
moosioian — I  seezat  by  your  face!" 

1 94,  4.  elle  et  moi — she  and  I. 
194.5.  bon  mtirche — cheap. 
194.34.  enftimille — at  home. 

1 1)5.  7.  "  Je  vdis  vous  cunter  couelque 
cose  (Je  vail  vous  chanter  quelque 
chose') — una  piccola  ctisit  tlti  niente  I 
—  cons  comprenez  V [tdlieni"  —  ^' \ 
I  vill  sing  to  you  somezing — a  leetle 
j  zing  of  nozzing! — vou  understand 
ze  Italian?" 

195,  12.  je  les  adore — I  adore  them. 
195,  16.  "  II   vera   atnore  "  —  "  True 

Love." 
196,17. 
"  E  III  mio  amor  e  andato  a  sog- 
tjionuire 
A    Lucca  bella — e   diventar   sign- 
ore,  . , ," 


-f-' 


473 


"  AikI  my  love  has  poiio  fo  ilwcll 
III   Ix'aiitifiil   Lucc;a  —  ami  iHi-dmo 
a  fjriulfinaii.  ..." 
W'i,-2*.K  "(f  iiKtn  Feniiiud  r — "(j   my 

Fcniand  I" 
190, 13.    "  /','/    '•'»/.«  »e  atntt'Z  pait  .  .  . 

rniiniir  }<•  ponridi." 

"  .\ml  yon  il"  imt  siiif^  at  all,  at  all  V" 

"Oil  y«'s,  sometimes!" 

".Sinir  soincziii;^  -  I  vill  aci'om|iaiiy 
ynii  (III  /,(■  t^iiiiar!  — tlo  iioi  lie  alraid  - 
ve  vill  lint  Ix;  hard  on  voii,  sin;  and 
/— " 

"  (Hi  —  I'll  do  my  I)e«t  to  nccompany 
myself." 
ll)(j,  21.  "/'A///-  ilis  A /pis"  —  "Flower 

ol  the  .Mps." 
1!M>,  2;{.  iiie'liiilic  tie  S(iur<'ltii/c—m(}{\ii\ 

lor  savin;;  lilV-. 
2(Xt,  2.  Jr  li'iir  rettx  dit  bien — I    wish 

llu'ir.  well, 
20<>.  IT.  I.iirip    <il  factotum  —  Make 

»vay  for  the  factotum. 
201.21.  ///•■*.'  tcr.'—a  second  time!    a 

third  time! 

201.  2<).  "  //<!  Roosji'  mt  di-  Dorm  " — 
"The  Rose  without  the  Thorn." 

202,  1.').  sdii.i  tiiiiihoiir  ni  fniitipi't/c — 
without  drum  «)r  triiuipcL  (French 
leave). 

202.  2!>.  IluUlde  PiV/f— Town  hall. 

203,  4.  '•  Una  sera  d'  amore  " — "  An 
Kvciiini^  of  liovc  " 

203. 16.  ''  (iiiarda  che  fnanca  limit  " — 
•'  liehold  the  silver  moon  " 

201.1.').  hiiiitc  piitraiu — life  and  soul. 

20.j,  10,  "  A  vous,  rnimsieur  de  la  yardu 
.  .  .  linr  hs  preiniirsr 
"Your     turn,     tfeiitleman     of    tin 

j^iianl." 

"  The  ucntlemen  of  the  guard  should 

always  tire  the  tirst!" 

2*)."),  20.  "  Je   ne  tire   plus  .  .  .  mahi 
malheureuse  un  jour  !"  —  "  I  will  tire 
no  more — I  am  too  much  afraid  that 
scinie  day  my  hand  may  he  unfortii 
nate !" 

20."),  3.3.  "  Le  cnrliet  .  .  .  je  lui  avais 
deiniiiide  '"  —  "  Mr.  .losselin's  seal, 
which  I  had  asked  him  for!" 

206,4.  Halle  d' Amies —  Fencing- 
school. 


206,  10.   d<  sen  flint  ill  i;;)s — child's  play. 

20('».  \h.  *'  Je  rous  en  prie,  nnni.iirin-  de 
III  f/iiri/er' — "I  pray  you,  gentle- 
man of  the  guard  !" 

20(!,  17.  "  Cilli  J'iiIk,  iifnrs.  units  nllmis 
filer  ensemble.'" — "This  time,  then, 
we  will  draw  together!" 

20ti.  2'i.  iiiiiilri'  d'linnis — fencing-mas- 
ter. 

20(1.  2!*.  "  Vims I'ti .■>  ii)ipiii/iihle  .  .  .pour 
1,1  /•/,"  — "You  are  e.xiniurdinary, 
y<iii  know,  my  dear  fellow  ;  you  have, 
ivery  talent,  and  a  inillinn  in  your 
ihriiat  into  the  |p;irg,iin  !  If  ever  I 
can  do  any  tiling  fur  you.  you  know, 
always  count  upon  me.'' 

'JOH.  1.  "  /-.V  ji/ii.'i  jiiniiiis  .  .  .  fjiiand 
runs  w/'t'c///-*-- .'■'-—' .\iid  no  more 
emptv  envelopes  when  vou  write 
tome!" 

20S,  10.  In  pi  (III  de  c/iiif/rin—thp  sha 
green  skin.  (The  hero  «if  this  .story, 
l>y  Hal/ac,  is  given  a  piece  of  .sha- 
green, on  the  condition  that  all  his 
wishes  will  he  gratilied,  hut  that 
every  wish  will  cause  the  leather  to 
.shrink,  and  that  when  it  disappears 
his  life  will  come  to  an  end.  Chiiipin 
also  means  sorrow,  .so  that  Harty's 
retina  was  indeed  "a  skin  of  .sor- 
row," continually  .shrinking.) 

20.S,  2!).  "/.('.•<  iiii.se ns  du  jour  Jon f  le 
hiiuhtnr  du  lendemiiin  .'"  —  "  The 
mi.sery  of  to  day  is  the  happiness  of 
to  morrow  I" 

210,2.').  dune — a  low  .sand-hill.  (Tliey 
iire  til  he  found  all  along  the  Belgian 
co;isl.) 

21 1.  22.  piir-    hy. 

214.  32.  dii  on — they  say. 

216,22.  hiin  irnccord  —  of  the  same 
mind. 

217,  1.  ;/(V  — l)y  l)irth. 

217,  20  villi  qui  vous  parle — I  who 
speak  to  you 

2I!>,  3.   Krrnii'sse  —fair. 

219,  6.  esfiiminef  —  a  drinking  and 
smoking  resort. 

219.  10.  hill  Teniirs — after  the  manner 
of  Teniers,  the  painter. 

219,  34.  in  secula  seculorum  ! — for  ages 
of  ages ! 


-child's  play. 

',  niini.iiriir  <le 

you,  f^enllo- 

.".  imnx  ii/fiiux 
IS  time,  then, 

h-iiciiifj-mas- 

<ihf)' .  . .  pour 
'ctnuprdinary, 
«■ :  you  linv<! 
Ilinn  in  voiir 
:  llpviri 
II.  you  know, 

'  .  .  .  qunnd 
ik!  no  njore 
1  you   write 

in — the  sha 

>f  this  story, 
tiece  of  sha 
tiint  all  his 
<i,  Itut  that 
If-  leather  to 
t  liisappears 
1(1.  ('firif/rm 
hat  Harty's 
<kin   of  sor- 

jour  font  le. 
'"  —  "  The 
happiness  of 

hill.  (Thoy 
the  Belgian 


the   same 
rlc — I   who 

lUiiig  and 
the  manner 
/ — for  agea 


473 


220,  3.   Rui'  lies  Vrxulinp^  lihtnches — 

.Street  of  the  Whit';!  rrsiilines. 
220.  r>.   </«.<    Siiurs    lifili  i:i]ttiiristhies- 

.Sisters  of  the  IJeileiniition. 
220.  II.  /•■/•,/// -Mrs      ('liiis    is   (ier- 

man  ;  tlie  I'lernish  '\!>,  luj'niir.) 
220,2(1.    "  Aa  CVv'^Me"— "  The  .Stork 

Iiin." 
221,0.  mildtlc  (tux  jinc*  hcrhis — salad 

maiie  of  a  nii.\tnr(!  of  heri>s. 

222,  2«.  hlhnrik'  lite — on  a  Uvel  with 
their  he.ids. 

223,  (I.  sdiJfz  roiig? — do  you  know? 
223,  2().  r/iiius.i(^i.>t — roads. 

224.20.  /.(.v  Miiilrm  Sniiiinirs  —  The 

Master  liin^'ers. 
La    M<ire   itn   D'mblc  —  The 
Devil's  Pool. 
22.5,  21.  neinhiiilii      eiirieal  seminary. 
225,  20.  -'  Mir  nin>  I'noh,  ,/i  A'.«ir</.'" 

— "  My  dear  Paid  .ie  Kock  !" 
22.5,  32.  "  Cit  iiiiilfiritriuj-;'  etc, 
"An  inifortiinate  dressed  in  Idack, 
Who  rescmhled  me  like  a  l)rother." 
(Du  Mauricr  himself.) 
228,  14    7iiein  (inner — my  |)oor. 
228,  17.   Lieber—i\car. 
22{\  b.Jiel   .l/(aem>  —  Ueantiful   Ma 

zelto. 
220,  7.   "  Ir/i  bill  ein  luj<tif/er  Stuileiif, 
mein  Pitrili/  " — "  I  am  a  jolly  .Stu- 
dent, my  IJarty." 
220,  1.5.   Kdizenjiiiiiiner — sore  head. 
220,  18.   Liebe—\ove. 

230,  2.  tout  le  wo/ir/f  -everyhody. 

231,  18.  ttufrefois — the  times  of  yore. 

231.21.  'UJli',  mm,  won   «w/t"— ""Oh, 
no,  my  friend  " 

231,  20.  ""/V///  bnuhomme  rit  encore" 

— "(iood  little  fellow  still  alive." 
232,1. 

^^  Ilequoi!  pour  des perra(lillt.i"  etc. 
"  Eh,  what!  for  peceadilloea 
To  scold  those  little  loves? 
Women  are  so  pretty, 

And  one  does  not  love  forever ! 
Good  fellow 
Thoy  call  me  .  .  . 
My  gaycty  is  my  treasure ! 
And  the  good  fellow  is  still  alive — 
And  the  good  fellow  is  still  alive!" 
233, 10.  Soupe-au-luit — Milk  porridge. 


!  2.34,  2.  musrtr    rolilitutes  —  (literally) 
I       hoveriii^f  tlies. 
212,  1.    '•  Mittez-rou.i    au    rfi;ime    ilm 

ridiiili:!  siiif/iKiii/es  .'" — "Put  ymirsell 

on  a  di>t  ■>(  rare  meat  I" 
242.  4.    ••  Mil/'Z    rolls    nu     lait !"  — 

"Take  to  milk!" 
242,  0.    ile<"  iinriiieiif — idleness. 
212,  1(5.    '■'■Amour,  .  I  ;».«*//•.'' etc. 
"  I.ove,  love,  when  yon  Imld  us, 
Well  niav  we  sav    '  Prudence,  good- 
hye!"' 
244,  1.    "//  •■i'est  rowluit  en   /lomme  i/e 

eiiitr!"' — "lie   has   behaved  like  a 

man  of  spirit !" 
24 1.  3.    "  //  s'l'i^l  riiiiiliiif  en  hon  r/enlil- 

/iniiiiiip  !" — "  lie  has  hehaved  like  a 

thorough  geiitlem.in  !" 
217,  0     Les  SiKi .1  lie  Jeimnette — .leaii- 

lU'tte's  Wedding. 
247,  13. 

••  Cours,  mon  dii/uille  .      .  de  notre 

prliie  I" 

"  Pun,  my  needle,  through  the  wool! 
Do  not  hreak  olf  in  my  hand  ^ 
For  to  nmrriiw  with  good  kisses 
.fean  will  pay  us  for  our  trouhle!" 
21'.'.  3.    "  J/eldS  '   mon  jiuiie   diiii  !" — 

•  Alas !   my  young  friend !" 
2.52,  1.    Sur.tuin  corf  lotrKUiiicordu!^ 

Lift   u|)  your  heart!     Lift  up  your 

hearts ! 
252,  11.  coupe-chou.r — cahhage  cutter. 
2.52,  13.  "  (\i  ne  roua  rei/arde  pus,  .  ,  , 

ou  j'e  vous  .      " — "  It's  none  of  your 

hnsiness,  you  know!  take  yourselves 

off  at  once,  or  I'll  .  .  ."' 
252,  10.  "  Non—i-'est  moi  qui  retfurde, 

sdi'cz-rousl"  —  "  Xo — it    is   I    who 

am  looking,  you  know!" 
252,  20.  "  (pi'esl-ce  que  vous  reijdi'dez  V 

.  .  .    Vous   ne    ronlez   pas   vous   eii 

oiler  r 

"What  are  you  looking  at?" 

"I  am  looking  at  the  moon  and  the 
stars.     I  am  looking  at  the  comet !" 

"  Will  you  take  yourself  ofl'at  once?" 

"Soim?  other  lime!" 

"  Take  yourself  (.ff",  I  tell  you  !" 

"  The  day  after  to-morrow  !" 

"  Vou     .  .  will     .  .  not  .  .  .  take 
.  .  .  yourself.  .  .  off?" 


■ 


474 


1 « ' 


u 

s 

K 


252,  32.  "  Non,  saaS  petit  .  .  .  restez 
oil  vous  efes  f'' 

"  No,  y(»'i  coiifi)unilcd  little  devil's 
gravel  piisln?r !" 

"  All  right.,  Slav  where  you  are!" 
254,  16. 

"...  (In  somvipil  <tu  songe — 
Du  songe  a  Id  mart. " 

"...  from  .sleep  to  dream — 
From  dream  to  death." 

254,  21.  " //  est  dix  henres  .  .  ,  dans 
votre  chambrc?" — "It's  ten  o'clock, 
you  know  V  Will  j'ou  have  your 
eoffti;  in  your  room  V" 

255,  14  fu  dtite  de  loin,  mnn  pnuvre 
ami — it  goes  a  long  way  back,  my 
poor  friend. 

25t),  8,  pnnefum  caciirn — blind  spot. 
257,27.  ino)i   beau   soimutmbule  —  my 

handsome  somnambulist. 
257, 33.    On  ne  suit  pus  a    qui  pent 

arrivcr  —  One  never   knows   'vhat 

may  happen. 
258,  17.   /tcMS—look. 
2(12,  10.  sens  peur  et  sans  reproche — 

without  fear  and  without  reproach. 
202,  1 5.  "  Ca  s'appelle  Ic  point  caehi  — 

c'est  une  portion  de  la  retinc  avec 

laqiiiUe  on  ne  pent  pas  voir.  .  .  ." — 

"  It  is  called  the  blind  spot — it  is  a 

part  of  the  '-etina  with  which   we 

cannot  see.  .  .  ." 
2r)3, 13.  c'est  tonjours  ga — that's  always 

the  way. 
263,  23.  plus  que  coquette — more  than 

cotpiottish. 
2(!1),  8.  p'ere    et    mere  —  father    and 

mother. 
271,31.  more   Latino  —  in    the   Latin 

manner. 

272,  12.  pictor  Ignotus — the  unknown 
painter. 

273,  6.  "  Que  me  voila  .  .  .  Ole  ton 
ckiipeau .'" 

"  How  happy  I  am,  my  I'.ttle  Harty 
— and  you?  what  a  pretty  town, 
eh  V" 

"  It's  heaven,  pure  and  simple — and 
you  are  going  to  teach  me  German, 
aren't  you,  my  dear?" 

"  Vep,  and  we  will  read  Heine  to- 
gether ;  by  the  wuy,  look  !  do  you  see 


the  name  of  the  street  at  the  corner? 
Bolker  Slras'^^ !  that's  whore  he  was 
born,  poor  Heine  !  Take  off  your  hat !' 
273,  19.  J/a//r««^— May  drink.     (.An 

iiifusioi!  of  woodruff  in  light  white 

wine.) 
273,  34.  "  Johanna,    mein    Friihstuch, 

bifle  !" — "  Johanna,   my    breakfast, 

please !" 
276.  27,  la  harre  de  bdtardke — the  bar 

of  bastardy, 
27f),  15.  der  sr.hone — the  handsome. 
280,  24.   Spc'iserei — eating  house. 
283,  5.  "  ni  For  ni  la  grandeur  ne  noris 

rendent    heureux"  —  "neither   gold 

nor  great ne.«y  makes  us  happy." 

285,  22.  mes  premieres  amours — my 
first  loves). 

286,  3.  "  Petit  chagrin  .  .  .  nn  soupir !" 

"  Little  sorrow  of  childhood 
Costing  a  .sigli !" 
286,  9.  II  avait  bien  raison — He  was 
quite  right. 

289,  15.  riinquega — nothing  but  that. 

290,  29,  "  //  a  ks  quality  .  .  .  sont  ses 
meilleures  qualites." 

"The  handsome  Josselin    has    the 
qualities  of  his  faidts." 

"  My  dear,  his  faults  are  his  best 
qualities." 
297,  4.  A  rt  et  liberty. — Art  and  liberty. 

299,  11.  "  Du  hist  die  R;ih\  der  Frie'de 
mild!'" — "Thou  art  rest,  sweet 
peace !" 

300,  19.  ccst  plus  fort  que  nwi — it  is 
stronger  than  I. 

304,  2.  dans  le  blanc  des yeux — straight 

in  the  eyes, 
306,  20,  damigella — maiden. 
308,  27.  "  Die  lluhe  kehret  mir  zuriick" 

— "  Peace  comes  back  to  n:c." 

308,  30.  prosit  ome'i — may  the  omen 
be  propitious. 

309,  5,  prima  donna  assoluta — the  ab- 
solute lirst  lady.  (Grand  Opera,  the 
"leading  lady.") 

310,32.  griiigak'tjncrisse  —  an  effemi- 
nate fellow. 

312,3.  J'liire  la  popotte  ensemble  au 
coin  dufeu;  c'est  le  cul — to  potter 
round  the  tire  tugetaer;  that  is 
heaven. 


475 


it  the  corner? 
rvhere  he  was 
off  your  h.it !' 
'  drink.     (An 
n  light  wliile 

n    Friihstiick, 
ly    breakfast, 

dise — the  bar 

handsome. 
Df  house. 
ideiir  ne  nnus 
neitlier   gold 
I  hajjpy." 
amours — m}' 

.  un  soupir !" 
lildhood 

mi — He  was 

ling  but  that. 
' .  .  .  sont  ses 

lin    has    the 

are  his  best 

and  liberty. 

;',  ffer  Fricde 

rest,    sweet 

e  inoi — it  is 

tx — straight 

n. 

mir  zitriick" 

.0  n2c." 

f  the  omen 

ltd — the  nb- 
d  Opera,  the 

-an  cffcmi- 

ensemble  au 
I — to  potter 
t;    that   is 


312,  29.  Ansstellung — exhibition. 

314,  8.  loch — a  medicine  of  the  con- 
sistence of  honey,  taken  by  licking 
or  sucking. 

318,10.  "£■<  voila  comment  ga  s'est 
passe" — "And  that's  how  it  hap- 
pened." 

320,  14.  et  plus  royaliste  que  le  Roi — 
and  more  of  a  royalist  than  the 
King. 

321, 13.  cm — growth. 

323,  32.  fj\imilii  est  fam^onr  sans 
ailes — Friendship  is  love  "ithout 
wings. 

325,  9.  En  veux-tii  ?  en  vnilh  !  —  Do 
you  want  some?  here  it  is! 

327,  10.  kudos — glory. 

328,  9.  Dis-moi  qui  tu  hantes,  je  te 
dirai  ce  que  tu  es — Tell  me  who  are 
your  friends,  and  I  will  tell  you  what 
yon  are. 

331,  20.  si  le  coeur  t^en  dit  —  if  your 

heart  prompts  you. 
335,  5.  esprit  de  corps — brotherhood. 

335,  8.  Noblesse  oblige — Nobility  im- 
poses the  obligation  of  nobleness. 

336,  15.  betise  pure  et  simple — down- 
right folly. 

337,  15.  Je  suis  an-dessus  de  mes  af- 
faires— I  am  above  my  business. 

338,  11.  Mamanbelle-iiiere — Mama- 
niother-in  law. 

338,  30.  vous  plaisanteZf  mon  ami ;  un 
amateur  comme  moi — you  are  jok- 
ing, my  liiend;  an  amateur  like 
myself. 

338, 31.  Quis  custodiet  (ipsos  custo- 
des)? — Who  shall  guard  the  guards 
themselves? 

339,  2.  monsieur  auf/lais,  qui  avail  mat 
uux  yeux — English  gentleman,  who 
had  something  the  matter  with  his 
eyes. 

340,  5.  La  belle  dame  sans  vierci — The 
fair  lady  merciless. 

342,  4.  de  par  le  monde  — in  society. 
242,  18.  je  tdcherai  de  ne  pas  en  abuser 

trop! — I  will  try  not  to   take  too 

much  of  it! 
344,15.  le  dernier  des  Abevcerrages — 

the  last  of  the  Abencerrages.     (The 

title  of  a  story  by  Chateaubriand.) 


347,  24.  a  mon  imu — unknown  to  me. 
354,  II.  On  a  les  d^fauts  de  ses  quaU- 

tis  —  One   has   the  faults  o*"  one's 

virtues. 
354,  15.    joliment    degourdie  —  finely 

.shi.rpened. 
358,  10.     Aff    quatrieme    Dimension — 

The  Fourth  Dimension. 
360,  25.  nons  avom  en  la    main  heu- 

reuse — we  have  been  fortiuiate. 
360,28.  smalah  —  encampment  of  an 

Arab  chieftain. 
363,  19.  Je  suis  homme  d'ajfaires  —  I 

am  a  man  of  business. 

373,  28.  un  conte  a  dormir  debout — a 
story  to  bore  one  to  sleep. 

374,  23.  Oil  avioiisnous  done  la  tefe  et 
les  yeux?  —  What  were  we  doing 
witli  oi-r  minds  and  eyes? 

377,  1.  "  Cara  deum  soboles.  magnum 
Jovis    invremenlum" —  "The  dear 
offspring   of  God,    the  increase   of 
Jove." 
:  378,  22.   Tons  les  genres  sont  bons,  hor- 
mis  le  genre  ennnyenx — All  kiuvis  are 
I      good,  except  tbn  boring  kind. 
!  380,  3.   Celail  un  na'if,  le  bean  Josselin 
I      — lie  was  ingenuous,  the  handsome 
I      Jos.selin. 

381,  9.   A  Vina  rirumque  cano  —  Arms 

ami  the   man   i  sing. — The 

Hrst  words  of  Virgil's  /Eneid. 

Tityre  tu  patuhe  {recubans  sub 

tegminc  figi) — Thou,  Tity- 

rus,    reclining   beneath    the 

shade  of  a  spreading  beech. 

— The  first  line  of  the  first 

Eclogue  of  Virgil. 

Mwcenas  ataris  (odile  regihns) 

— Miecenas  descended   from 

royal    ancestors.  —  Ihtrace, 

Odes,l,  1.  1. 

381,  10.  Mt)vii>  (ifiit  —Sing  the  wrath. 

— The  first  words  of  llumer's  /liiid. 

381, 21.  Debuts— Ia'  Jountid  des  Debuts, 

a  Parisian  literary  newspaper. 
386,  3.  soinmitilittiraiie — literary  pin- 
nacle. 
386,  16.  Bouillon   Duval  —  a  class  o5 

cheap  restaurants  in  I'nris. 
386,  30.  Eloilcs  .»/L./7fs-Dead  Stars. 
388,  6.  la  coupe — the  cutwater. 


X 


476 


W 


388,  11.  a  la  fntssarde — h^a  1  first. 

389,  2.  la  trex-Xftge  Heln'ise — the  most 
learned  Ilcloi.se.  (Another  of  the 
ladies  mentioned  in  Villon's  "  Hal- 
lade  of  the  Ladies  of  Olden  Time." 
See  note  to  page  24,  line  .'30.) 

38!).  h,  lions  altotis  arranger  tout  fa-  — 
we'll  arrange  all  that. 

38!),  20.  C\'st  la  chastete  ineme,  mais 
ce  ticat  pa.i  l)ejiiui>-e — It  is  cliastity 
itself,  but  it  is  not  Dejanire. 

.'{!M»,  20.  tr'eK  elet/aiite — very  elegant. 

390,  22.  d'lin  noir  de  Jais,  d'tine  blan- 
r/iciir  de  lif — jet  black,  lily  white. 

391,  1.  ah,  mon  Dieii,  la  JUane  chassc- 
resse,  la  Sapho  de  Pradier ! — ah, 
ISIy  (lod.  Diana  the  huntress,  I'ra- 
dier's  Sapi>ho ! 

391,  8,  uu  vrai  t;ipe  de  colosse  hon  en- 
J'tint^  d'une  tenue  irreprochable — a 
perfect  image  of  a  good  natured 
colossus,  of  irreproachable  bearing. 

391,  ir>.  turtiiie^ — slices  of  bread  and 
butter. 

391,  17.  inie  rraie  menagerie — a  per- 
fect menagerie. 

392, 7.  belle  chatelaine — beautiful  chate- 
laine. 

.393,1.  gazebo — summer-house. 

39i3, 18.  le  qiit  retranche — name  given 
in  some  French-Latin  grammars  to 
the  Latin  form  which  (expresses  by 
the  infinitive  verb  and  the  accusa- 
tive noun  what  in  French  is  ex- 
pressed by  "  que "  between  two 
verbs. 

394,  32.  alma  mater  dolorosa  —  the 
tender  and  .sorrowful  mother. 

391,  33.  mardire  au  aiur  de  pL'rrc — 
stony  hearted  mother. 

o!)(),  19.  Tnidenz  novels  —  novels  with 
a  purpose. 

39(5,  28.  noui'ellc  riche—\w\s\y  rich. 

404,  1 1.  on  II  CKt  /res  bien  —one  is  very 
well  (here. 

40G,  2(5,  "//  est  die  henres,"  etc.— See 
note  to  page  2r>4,  line  21. 

40(5,  30.  rilain  iiiangeur  de  aiHrs  que 
I'ous  etes — wretched  eater  of  hearts 
that  you  are. 

407, 30.  (In  rrai  petit  St.  Jean !  il 
nous  porter  a  bonheur^  bien  sur — A 


perfect  little  "t.  John  !  he  will  bring 

us  good  luck,  for  sure. 
408,  27.  710IIS  sarons  notre  orthographic 

en  mmique  la  bus — we   know  our 

musical  a  b  c's  over  there. 
412,  8.  tn-medio-tnlissimns  (/6w) — You 

will  go  safest  in  the  middle. 
4 1 2,   20.    diidjlement   bien    conserve  — 

dciicedly  well  preserved. 
.413,  II.   O  me  foriuiKilum,  men  si  bona 

uorim! — 0  happy  me,  had  I  known 

my  own  blessings! 

414,  23.  un  malheuveux  rati — an    un- 
fortunate failure 

415,  9.  abrntissant — stupefying. 

410.  15.  affaire  d\stomac—&  maUcT  o{ 

stomach. 
418, 1.  "..^f  suis  alle  de  bon  matin,"  etc. 

"  I  went  at  early  morn 
To  pick  the  violet, 
A'  d  hawthorne,  and  jasmine, 
To  celebrate  thy  birrhday. 
With  my  own  hands  I  bound 
The  rosebuds  and  the  ro.semary 
To  crown  thy  golden  head. 

"  But  for  thy  royal  beauty 
Be  humble,  I  pray  thee. 
Here  all  things  die,  flower,  summer, 

Youth  and  life  : 
Soon,  soon  the  day  will  be, 
My  fair  one,  when  they'll  carry  thee 
Faded    and    pale    in    a    winding- 
sheet." 

418,  19.  perismires — paddle-boats. 
pique-tetes — diving-boards. 
418,  21.     station   balneuire  —  balhing 

re.>*ort. 
41i),  25.  utile  dulci  —  the  useful  with 

the  pleasant, 
420,  i).  1(1  chasse  aux  souvenirs  —  the 

hunt  after  remembrances. 
420,  25.  s'est    encanailU  —  keeps    low 

company. 

422,  25.  porte-cochere  —  carriage  en- 
trance. 

423,  1.  "  /I  A,  ma  foi  .'  .  .  .  la  balk  au 
camp  " — "  Ah,  my  word,  I  under- 
stand that,  gentlemen — I,  too,  was  a 
schoolboy  once,  and  was  fond  of 
rounders." 


477 


hn  !  he  will  bring 
«re. 

lotre  orthogrujihie 

I — we   know  our 

r  there. 

iin)/s  (ibii) — You 

B  midillc. 

bien    consen.'e  — 

rved. 

'luiiu  men  n  bona 

ne,  had  I  known 

'X  rate— aw    un- 

tiipcfyinf^. 
Kic—a  matter  of 

I  ban  mutin"  etc. 
rn 

jasmine, 
•irthday. 
*  I  bound 
e  rosemary 
leu  head. 

entity 
tliee. 
flower,  summer, 

ill  be, 

ey'll  carry  thee 

n    a    winding- 

ddle-boats. 
ing-boards. 
lire  —  bathing 

le  useful  with 

ouvenirs  —  the 

COS. 

—  keeps    low 

-  carriage    en- 

.  .  In  btille  nil 

"rtl,   I    undcr- 

— I,  too,  was  a 

was   fond  of 


423,  11.  Le  Fils  de  la  Vterge  —  The 
Virgin's  Son. 

423,  12.  mutatis  mutandis — the  neces- 
sary changes  being  made. 

423,  34.  "  Moi  aussi,ji:J\inints  .  , .  n'est 
cepns?"  —  "I  too  smoked  when  it 
was  forbidden  ;  what  do  you  expect  ? 
Voutli  must  have  its  dav,  musn't 
it  V" 

424,  3.  dntne — indeed. 

425,  30.  cour  des  mirttcles — the  court 
of  miracles.  (A  meeting  place  of 
beggars  described  in  lingo's"  Notre 
Dame  de  Paris."  So  called  on  ac- 
count of  the  sudden  change  in  the 
appearance  of  the  pretended  cripples 
wlio  caine  there.) 

42(5,  IG.  "  (^  dis-dtmc,  lldrtense"  etc. — 
"Oh  say,  Hortense,  how  cold  it  is! 
whenever  will  it  be  eleven  o'clock, 
so  that  we  can  go  to  bed  V" 
428,  5.  nous  autres — we  others. 
428,  22.  Numero   Deiis  impure  f/audet 
— The  god  delights  in  uneven  num- 
bers. 
430,  22. 

"  .4  us  meinen  Thranen  spriessen,^'  etc. 
"  Out  of  my  tear-drops  springeth 
A  harvest  of  beautiful  flowers; 
And  my  sighing  turneth 
To  a  choir  of  nightingales." 
Ileiue. 


435,24.  Ah,  mon  Dieu !  —  Ah,  my 
Cod ! 

437,  34.  Etablissement  —  establish- 
ment. 

439,  31.  Pnndore  ef  sn  Boite —  Pan- 
dore  and  her  Box. 

441,  12.  '^(''tst  jHipn  <]iii  pitie  et  ma- 
mnn  qui  rerjnle  "  —  "  Papa  pays  anil 
mamma  I  reals." 

44."),  8.  an  f/nim/e  trot— at  a  full  trot. 

447.  12.  Xiiiis  etions  bien,  la  —  We 
were  well,  tliere. 

447,21,  I'/iomme  propose — man  pro- 
jioses. 

448,  \.  "  0  tenijio  piissiito,  perche  iion 
ritorni?" — ''O  bygone  days,  why 
do  you  not  return  ?" 

448,  7.  "  ft  je  vien  mis,"  etc, 
"  And  off  I  go 
On  the  evil  wind 

Which  carries  me 
Here  and  there 
Like  the 

Leaf  that  is  dead." 
448.  13.  rossifpiolet  de  nion  lime — little 
nightingale  of  my  soul. 

448,  23.  ])a  capo,  e  dn  cnpo — Over  and 
over  again. 

449,  4.  medio  de  fonte  lepornm  (surr/it 
amari  (diijniil)— from  the  midst  Of 
the  fountain  of  delights  something 
bitter  arises. 


